A Lady's Shield
by Kiana Caelum
Summary: Phillippa ha Minch is a noble, but she doesn’t fawn over men, or moon over unrequited love. What Pip wants is far more valuable - and dangerous. And the price may be deadly... As of 05/05/08: updated.
1. Prologue

If you're here for the first time - I hope you enjoy this. It's a sequel to a (much) earlier story called Hanging On, but you in no way need to read that to read this.

I'd love to hear what you think - comments and criticism are equally welcome.

Hope you enjoy!  
- Ki

**A Lady's Shield: Prologue**

The legend of the phoenix is as ancient as the sky.

Part of our culture, it seeps into every tale, a symbol and a wish and a truth as strong as iron. The phoenix is our hopes, which rise brighter and hotter from the ashes. It is our dreams which come from nowhere to soar, and it is always ourselves who live and die and live on as memory.

We long for that final, glowing splendour before we crumble into cinders. We long to take wing, for there to be no difference between us and the distant stars except that we must fall.

But most of all, we long to be reborn from the ashes.

We have pinned our aspirations to it. We have made it something noble when it is only a creature like any other, existing no further than the air in its lungs and under its wings. It's easy to think that the phoenix is all about hope. Easy, but wrong. So stark and astonishing is its rebirth that we forget what lies before it.

The phoenix burns, and in its moment of self-immolation it dies not in glory but in wretched, cruel pain.

In all the world, only it has known the space and the silence and the loneliness beyond life. That we imagine it can find the courage to rise again, knowing what lies before it is perhaps our cruellest delusion. It has no choice. It has no will.

And there, we and it differ.

This is a tale about choice. It is a tale about courage, about glory, hopes, dreams, all that we burn for.

And most of all, it is a story about sacrifice.

X - X - X - X - X

Her face in the mirror was pale and resolute.

It didn't show a trace of the maelstrom under her skin, but nor would she have allowed it to. Phillippa ha Minch touched her fingers to her lips briefly, feeling the imprint of a kiss that still burned there.

You're not mine, she thought to the boy who had left the heat and pressure of his mouth on hers. I wish you were, but I'm not a court lady. I'm not there to be wooed and wed like the rest of them. And even if I were, you and I are worlds apart.

She scraped back her newly cut, newly dyed black hair, lashing it tight with a band. It revealed the faint scars on her left temple and the darkening bruises around her neck, but she lifted the mask that sat on the table beside her, an artful thing of white fabric and wood that left only her mouth bare.

A moment's hesitation, a lifetime's brief regret as she stared into the murky green pools of her own eyes and saw only her fear and doubt reflected back.

I can do this. I must. I will not come so far and turn back.

And then she went outside, disguised and determined to fight. She would not speak, in case her voice gave away her birth.

For Phillippa ha Minch was a noble, and she was about to begin the Ordeal of Shang.

X - X - X - X - X


	2. Chapter One

Thank you to everyone who reviewed - thank you **Sapphire, Myst, Junipertree, Radella, :o), Kathryn Jewel, Aquilla, Larzdinn, Sulia, Cynical Leaf, Linnet Jo, Midnight Angel, Quartz, Jade's Dragon Sister, Psycho Angel, Sara, Cass, Theola, Cera, Natalia, Jinx** and the amazing **Alia**. Comments adored!

**A Lady's Shield: Chapter One **

There was once a woman who lived and loved and lost.

They called her the Phoenix.

She was a legend in her life, a woman with a fiery smile and lightning reflexes who was a match for any man, woman or immortal that cared to fight her. Some said she was beautiful, and some said she was beyond beautiful. Thousands lost their hearts to a woman who trailed fire in her wake and set the land aflame wherever she stepped.

She was a Shang warrior, not merely the greatest of her land, or of her age, but the mightiest of them all.

They called her the Phoenix, but when she died in a blaze of glory and tragedy, her rebirth never came.

Until now.

X - X - X - X - X

The poppies grew red and lush here, rippling like a crimson sea. Silence hung heavy in the air, pressing in on him like unseen hands. Hands clutching at him, hands clinging to him, hands reaching out for help and imploring, begging...

For a fleeting, fearsome moment, Neal thought he heard his brothers' voices calling to him.

They were buried under here, under this glorious wash of scarlet that hid the horrors of the battlefield. He had come here for the vast emptiness, so he could almost feel his little cares leak away; so he could think again, so he could get some perspective on the things that truly mattered.

The things that mattered. It was odd how few there really were.

And today, when you came down to it, there was just one.

The fact that someone he loved beyond anything he might have believed would be fighting for their life. The thought terrified him, because the Ordeal of Shang was something taken lightly by no one. It meant death to someone, violent artful death.

But he didn't pray. Neal had never told anyone, but he stopped praying to the gods when they took his brothers.

Good luck, he thought to the echo of a girl who was far away. I think you'll need it.

X - X - X - X - X

They were an odd pair among the peacock finery of the nobles and the practical black and white of the staff who thronged around the practice court, waiting for the Ordeal to begin. The boy led the girl through the crowd, as bold as she was demure.

Many of the young court ladies caught their breath as he went by, hoping, hoping. If he had stopped to speak of course, they would have turned their heads away, because he was a common thief and one simply did not associate with him.

"But still..." as one whispered to a friend. "Look at that face!"

The boy had the clean-cut bone structure of an aristocrat, and laughing eyes that were a soft dove-grey. His full mouth always seemed to be on the cusp of the delicious smile that curled many a toe, and his dark hair had the slight wave that made every girl who saw him wonder if it would still be there after she had run her hands through it.

If he had stopped to speak of course, they would have turned their heads away, because he was a common thief and one simply did not associate with him.

Fewer people noticed the girl, as slight as a willow. Her hair was a tumble of gold and she used it as a veil, concealing wary golden eyes. She was slower to smile and quicker to flinch from the brush of bodies, mumbling apologies. Only with the boy did she seem completely comfortable.

With him, she lost her reserve, standing on tiptoe to whisper in his ear or share a joke. Once, the boy casually swiped a nobleman's purse, and the girl swatted him on the head with a stern glare. The boy sighed, and threw it back to the startled man.

In short, Ryan Talver looked like a fallen angel, and acted very much like one as well. Few angels, however, would have had quite such a foul mouth or the accompanying temper.

Andrea Kirisra was used to both, just as he was used to her pained expression every time he introduced her to another colourful curse. Her shyness was as well-known as his light fingers.

That the pair were powerful, half-trained mages added to the rumours about them. The truth was quite extraordinary enough without the spurious embellishments of gossip: a thief and a village girl, brought together in an odd throw of Fate's dice.

"Well, well," a snide voice said. "if it isn't beauty and the burglar."

"Hear that, lass?" Ryan said cheerfully to Andrea. "That great tub o' lard over there's callin' you a thief." He waggled his finger at the nobleman, who was purple with outrage. "An' you just ain't my type."

"Leave it," she hissed, tugging at his sleeve.

"He needs to learn manners," he pointed out quite reasonably.

"So do you," she muttered.

He grinned. It had taken months of hard work before Andrea would voice a word of criticism. Now she spoke her mind quite freely to him, and he was sure that with more time he could make her see she was as worthy as any noble. "I've learned 'em. I just choose not to exercise 'em."

"Maybe you should. It might make life easier."

"I don't want life easy," he retorted. "I want it interestin'."

He heard her sigh. "You would. I'd like to be able to go through the palace without people checking if I've taken their jewellery."

Ryan blinked. "They do that? But I'm the thief." At the scandalised glances of the crowd, he amended, "Reformed, o' course."

"And I'm your friend." Her smile was sweet and sad. "And no better than I ought to be, apparently."

When he understood just what that meant – and it didn't take long, he'd grown up with a whore – a cold, still fury filled him. "I've never heard anythin' like that."

"You wouldn't," she said. "Not after you broke that stableboy's nose."

He had deserved it. It hadn't been worth the fortnight of menial labour or the fine, but it had been worth it to stop the snide insults. Only they hadn't stopped, had they? People had just aimed their cruelty at an easier target.

"What are they sayin'?" he asked.

"It doesn't mat-"

He swung to face her. "Don't say that!" he snapped. "It does matter. You matter. I bet they don't say it where Master Salmalin can hear, an' they certainly don't say it where I can hear, so they know it matters too. Now you tell me what them gutter dogs are sayin', or I'll go an' ask 'em myself!"

She turned her face away as if she didn't want him to see her expression. Her voice was drained. "The usual. That I'm a thief. That I'm a slut, and that I'm only using you so I can practice my 'arts' for when I trap some rich noble into marriage. That I'm learning magic so I can trick a man into falling for me because with my face and my voice I'll never get one."

Each new insult stoked his fury further. He let off a string of vulgar insults.

"It's all right," she said. Her lips trembled.

"No, it isn't," he said flatly.

She gave a light little laugh. "You're right," she confessed. "I hate it. But you know what? I don't care if they call me a thief or a slut. A truth-spell will prove that I'm not. But...but I can't stop them looking at me and despising me, and I don't even understand why."

He looked at her. "Because people are people, lass," he said gently. "An' some of 'em are cruel."

"I thought I knew that. But...oh, it was stupid, but I thought it would be different here. Better."

"It is different," he said strongly. "They're tryin' to make it better, I think. It's just takin' some time, that's all. But we can speed matters up – you can tell me who's been sayin' such rubbish to you for starters, an' I'll administer a little bit o' street justice-"

"You will not!"

"Fine. Then you need to learn to ignore 'em. It's all lies."

"I know that," she said wearily.

He didn't say any more on the subject, but it lingered in his mind as they resumed their progress through the crowds. Half the palace had turned out to watch the Ordeal, electrified by the news of this mysterious would-be Shang who never said a word and wore a mask to hide her face.

It wasn't just that Andrea was a commoner who'd been elevated by her magic. It wasn't that she was his friend, or even that a life of achievment and fame lay before her, though he didn't doubt that stirred jealousy in people's hearts. It was all those small flukes combined.

And those who scorned her looks were fools too. Though she still hadn't grown into her face, which was all angles and hollows, there was the promise of beauty there, blossoming with the pale translucence of a lily.

_You'll be a real looker in a year or two,_ Ryan thought wistfully. _Half the Court'll be chasing you, even if you are a common-born lass._

"Thank you," Andi murmured, flushing. They ducked and dived their way through to the front, unceremoniously treading on people's feet, employing elbows and knees to part the sea of people. "That's...incredibly sweet."

Ryan stopped. Had he said that aloud? No...

Had she read his mind?

Surely not.

She perched her elbows on the fence, looking at the practice court that was bare except for the three Shang who waited there. The Horse, the Wildcat and the graceful girl they called the Stormwing.

_You think this newcomer'll win?_ he thought as loudly as he could.

Andi turned her head towards him. "I don't know," she answered. "They say she's good. But the Stormwing's already half-legend."

_Half-legend and half-horror story. Not a merciful bone in her. _

She blinked, and then a frown marred her face. "I heard that..." she said quietly. "But your lips didn't move..."

_I know._

X - X - X - X - X_  
_

"I don't care, Father," Princess Kalasin said, and tossed her head.

Roald could see his father's eyes beginning to smoulder dangerously. Here we go again, he thought wearily. Kally was being such a brat.

She'd been that way for eight years now, ever since she had been banned from being a page. Ever since she'd been told about her arranged marriage to Emperor Kaddar, who she hated without so much as meeting the poor man.

"You damn well will care!" King Jonathan snapped. "You _are_ going to marry the Emperor, you _will _unite our kingdoms, and you _will not_ cause a war!"

Kally fixed him with the cold blue stare that was a direct inheritance. "If I want to cause a war, daddy dear, then I will." Her voice was rich, mocking, lazy.

She'd changed so much. When they were kids, Roald had always liked playing with Kally, because she was bright and funny. But now, she was sullen and sulky and selfish.

It didn't matter that he agreed with what she was saying. She was going about it the wrong way.

Oh, and his way was so much better? Sneaking off, stealing kisses, pretending he was happy being married off to some Yamani girl?

It was a terrible truth to admit, but Prince Roald had fallen in love with someone else.

A herald approached, and the Royals fixed their faces into smiles.

"I hate you," Kally said out of the side of her mouth.

"You'll obey me," his father muttered back through gritted teeth.

The Queen and her son exchanged weary looks as the man bowed hurriedly. "The tournament will begin presently," he said. "Will your highnesses require anything?"

"An axe," the King snapped, glaring at Kally.

"A fast horse," she snarled, stabbing a clip into her coal-black hair as if it was the King's head, not her own.

"A headache remedy," Roald muttered glumly.

"Uh..."

"Some cool drinks would be good, Bevan," his mother said wryly. "Please ignore my family. They're only joking. The Conté sense of humour is rather obscure."

Kally and the King were still sniping at one another.

The herald, his face as red as his garb by now, backed away. "Ma'am. Sir Roald."

Thayet turned her hazel eyes on him, and he was pleased to see the proud smile on her face. "I still can't believe you passed your Ordeal!" she said. "Of course, we knew you would, but still, you've done us proud...Sir Roald..." She sighed. "You're an adult now."

And I'll be married soon, he thought glumly, but kept his expression obedient for her.

This wasn't his mother, commander of the Riders who wielded a blade as well as any knight, and put the fear of the gods into any bandit. This was his mother the family woman, who worried about her children and her kingdom; someone gentler.

She smiled at him. "At least one of our children understands duty," she murmured.

And Roald thought of the girl who had danced with him at a Court ball and kissed him under the hallowed silver of a full moon, and said nothing.

X - X - X - X - X

Kel found Ryan and Andi where she expected them, at the front and annoying everyone else around them. She was as scruffy as them in old clothes, but everyone recognised the sturdy girl with the bright hazel eyes and the mongrel trailing after her and made way for her.

"Kel!" Andi exclaimed, relief in her voice. She was oddly white, pale as marble. "Oh, Kel, the strangest thing's happened!" Then, even more bizarrely, she turned to Ryan and said, "Oh, shut up!"

"He didn't say anything," a puzzled Kel said.

"But he thought it!" Andi wailed.

She looked at Ryan for an explanation. The grey eyes met hers, and were just as baffled. "She can read my mind," he explained.

"Very funny," Kel said, grinning at her boyfriend. She knew Ryan's penchant for practical jokes was neverending, though he'd stopped playing them on her the day that she challenged him to a bout.

"I was laughin'?" he said. "Kel, I'm serious! She keeps on doin' it!"

Kel looked from one to the other. Both beseeched her to believe them, staring at her with the hopeful look that meant they were, for once, serious.

"Oh, yuck!" Andi said, clapping her hands to her ears. "Ryan, don't think about Kel like that!"

She was astonished to see Ryan, who had lived with a prostitute, go an interesting shade of scarlet. "You shouldn't be listenin'," he said defensively and lowered his voice so no one around them could hear. "An' she's my sweetheart, I'm allowed to think of her like that."

"In _leathe_r? I can see what you're thinking as well, Ryan Talver, and what you two get up to in your spare time is none of my business, but that is plain disturbing."

Kel could feel her mouth beginning to twitch. Yamani cal,m had never been harder to maintain as her cool, calm boyfriend began to crack. "Oh Ryan, I thought you better than that...you've been to see that dancing show in Corus, haven't you?"

He was staring at the ground. "It weren't just me, lass."

She arched her eyebrows. No...she'd bet it had been Cleon's idea, with a little help from Neal. "Go on then - who went?"

"Well..." the thief shifted on his feet. Kel caught Andi's eye, and the peasant girl turned away with a hand over her mouth. Her shoulders were shaking. "Cleon, Neal, the Prince, Seaver, Faleron...but mind you, we saw Lord Wyldon there!"

"On stage?" she said mischievously.

"Oh gods!" Ryan said, "Andi, I did not need that mental image!"

"Well, if you will show me what the costumes were like..."

"So you really can read each others' minds..." Kel mused. "Can't you...turn it off? Is it some kind of magic thing you've been doing?"

Ryan shook his head. "Don't reckon so, lass. It's all just been normal."

She squirmed in next to him, touched when he hesitantly slipped a hand into hers before snatching it away. Kel was a noble, and a relationship with a commoner was taboo; it would only make her life yet more difficult if word got about. Sometimes Kel thought she didn't care about that, but Ryan did – he always said she didn't need any more problems.

"I don't mind you going to see that show," Kel said dryly. "It's one of those man things, I understand."

She felt him exhale, and the dove-grey eyes were grateful as they met hers. "You're wonderful, Kel."

"So of course," she said evenly, "you won't mind when Andi and I go down to see Carthaki performers that are stopping in the city next week...?"

He stared at her, giving her a look that said he didn't like it but he had no choice about agreeing. "If ye want."

"As it happens," she informed him, unable to keep the amusement from ringing in her voice, "I don't. I'd much rather be here with you."

His smile could seduce angels, and Kel was very glad it was directed at her. When he wanted to, Ryan could be utterly charming. "Here? I can think of better places we could be."

Andi elbowed Ryan. "Stop it! Can't you do something about your hormones? I'm an innocent peasant girl!"

"Hah!" snapped the thief, his lip curling. "Not with the way you're thinkin' about Faleron, missy, an' trust me, no one looks that good naked-"

"No!" Kel slapped a hand over his mouth. "I do not want to hear it! Gods, can't you think about something else? Flowers or, or...rainbows, or anything?"

A roar from the crowd interrupted them. It lasted only moments before settling into a silence full of anticipation and barely-leashed excitement. Then they saw her: a slight figure walking onto the court, tall and pale in a white mask and dark clothes, her feet bare, very alone in that immense crowd.

She looked like a warrior, Kel thought. There was a grace to her movements, a surety of step that spoke of time and training. That mask added an element of mystery and an edge of fear; she was faceless, possessing only rudiments of features, holes for her eyes and mouth.

But if she couldn't win, all that grace and all that mystery would mean nothing.

X - X - X - X - X

So here she was.

With her love far from her, maybe watching and maybe not, with a swelling crowd that muttered and babbled. Step after step on the flat, hard ground in bare feet, feeling each grain beneath her. Reaching that barren square of fenced land, Pip bowed to the Shang who waited for her.

Her opponent straightened. She had a proud face, not beautiful or even pretty, but striking. Her nose seemed to dominate it like a beak, above a thin and contemptuous mouth. Pip could tell from the stances of the Horse and the Wildcat that they disliked her.

The girl threw back the long fall of silvery hair. "I am the Shang Stormwing. If you dare to challenge me, step within and prepare to fight."

Pip bowed again.

The girl gave a flat sigh. "Spare me. Civility will get you nowhere."

But it is a lady's shield, Pip thought. The words her mother had said to her, words that Pip had taken and kept close to her heart and ignored at every possible opportunity.

_A lady's shield is civility, Pippa, and we can fight our enemies with grace and charm. When they are cruel, be patient and serene. When they are angry, be calm and courteous. Words are only sounds strung together, but actions are what the gods judge us by. _

She took a deep breath and stepped into the court.

It was done.

And there was no turning back, as she had not turned back from each and every decision that had led her here, now.

Pip could not stop her thoughts from flying back through the dark tunnel of recollection, back to the point where had it begun; back twelve months to that first moment in the library...

X - X - X - X - X


	3. Chapter Two

My god, these are almost getting frequently posted - big thanks and hugs to my lovely reviewers - thank you **Tsurara Kimiro, Jade Dragon's Sister, Larzdinn, Leila, Diomede, Alastriona, Myst, Quartz, Cass, Jinx, TabbyKat**, and **Grace**

Enjoy,  
Ki

**A Lady's Shield: Chapter Two**

From the moment of her birth, the Phoenix was something rare.

She was born among the mountains, a world of crisp, pallid colour and icy death. And on that night, a dark night seeping with shadows, the screaming winds fell silent and an infant's cry rose to fill the hush.

As she grew, the babe became a child who seared her people with a beauty and a breathtaking tumble of flaming hair that they had never seen. She moved as if she flew, they claimed. They begged her to touch their sick and their lame in the hope that all her health and warmth might be theirs too.

Eventually the child became a girl, who left the mountains to seek her destiny.

It was a great destiny, so great that a thousand, thousand learned mages had dreamed it, that it was written in every culture as a legend, or a myth, or a prophecy. It was a great destiny, momentous...

And terrible.

X - X - X - X - X

It seemed hardly possible the course of her life had changed only a year ago. Pip had been poring over scrolls in an effort to help a friend finish his class work. It wasn't altruism: she helped him study and he helped her learn to beat up grown men in an extremely unladylike manner.

Occasionally, she sipped at the glass of water she had brought with her in the stuffy summer heat of the library.

"Good mornin'."

She looked up at the youth who had stuck his head through the door. Tousled dark hair framed a disturbingly good-looking face. Athough he was dressed in expensive clothing, dark shades of blue and silver that set off his dove-grey eyes, his voice was that of a commoner.

"I'm lookin' for Andi."

Pip frowned and closed the faded scroll. She knew all the pages and squires, but she hadn't heard of an Andi. "I don't know him. What does he look like?"

The boy's eyes darted about the stacks of towering shelves. It was a vast, labyrinthine paradise, filled with dusty tomes and the latest discoveries alike. People had lost themselves in the widening aisles - urban legend said the vast ceiling was decorated to help hapless visitors find their way out.

"She," he corrected absently. "Master Salmalin gave us dozens of scrolls to read. I ain't done a thing, but Andi'll be up here slavin' away. I'm Ryan Talver." A tanned hand was offered.

Pip took it, placing him with a jolt. There was surprising strength in his grip, despite his obvious emaciation. "So you're _that_ Ryan," she said wryly. Everyone in the palace knew about him - as talented a mage as he was a thief. "Phillippa ha Minch."

His eyebrows arched. "So you're _that_ noble. I hear you beat up men for fun."

"I hear you stole the keys to the menagerie and let the monkeys loose," she retorted.

Mischief danced in his eyes. Now Pip looked closely, she could see tears in the rich fabrics he wore, and none of the jewellery it had become fashionable for Court men to display. "It were a dare. Cleon of Kennan will be payin' his forfeit for weeks yet. An' what about you, m'lady?"

Pip pulled a face. "I'm no lady," she told him. "And I haven't beaten all of them. Only the ones who annoy me."

He gulped, but a smile tugged at his wide mouth. "Should I be a-feared?"

"You should," she assured him gravely. "What does Andi look like?"

He held a hand up to his shoulder. "Yay high when she gets the courage to stand up straight. Gold hair, eyes to match an' shyer than a violet. Pretty, but you ain't ever to tell her I said that."

Memory twinged. "Hmm. I did see a girl of that description go into the magical section, but that was last night." She gestured to the wooden door. "She won't still be there, surely?"

"She will." Affectionate exasperation in his voice. "I told her, nothin' is that important. Master Numair won't fry her if she ain't read one scroll. Ye'll have to let me in – I'm not allowed in there without company." At her questioning glance, he shrugged. "Price of havin' a reputation like mine."

She could understand that. It was rumoured that thefts in the palace had shot up since his arrival, though none of it could be traced back to him. Personally, she thought that while Ryan Talver might be a crook, he wasn't a one-man crime wave – it was just that the nobles had begun examining their possessions more closely since his arrival.

Pip put her hand on the carved imprint in the door and spoke her name. A faint blue glow spread over the door and she heard the lock click open on the other side. Gently she eased it open; a room lined floor to ceiling with shelves was revealed, every inch stuffed with books and scrolls. The only wall free of books was filled with wide windows that let daylight stream in.

And at one of the desks in the centre of the room, a girl was asleep with her head pillowed on her arms.

Her delicate prettiness was clear even in sleep, something Pip envied. And she had the ultra-fashionable waifish figure, with the handspan waist and pale skin. Her conservative brother would have fully approved of this young mage - whereas Pip had a healthy tan from being outside so much, and regularly suffered his hints that she ought to eat a little less and dress a little better.

"You had a glass of water outside, didn't you?" There was a note of mischief in Ryan's voice as he watched the sleeping girl.

"Yes."

"Mind if I borrow it?"

"Be my guest."

She watched, curious as he fetched it from the outer library and silently walked over to the girl. He paused a moment to look at the serene face, the gilt hair fanned out over the faded scroll, the quill fallen useless in one hand.

He upended the glass over her head.

The girl screamed and sat bolt upright, a flush spreading over her cheeks. Then she saw the boy.

"You!" she shouted and flew at him, tiny fists pummelling him, kicking and twisting like a wildcat. Ryan fended her off easily, laughing all the while.

Then the girl saw Pip, and gasped as if shocked, ducking her head so the curtain of damp golden hair fell to hide her face.

"Oh, Andi, you don't need to go all coy on her," the boy said with a resigned sigh. "She ain't no snob. That's Phillippa ha Minch, the Mule."

The Mule? "Pip, actually," she corrected. "You must be Andi."

The girl's gold eyes widened. "I am," she murmured. "I suppose moron here told you."

"Who are you talkin' about?" the boy inquired mock-innocently. "Yeah, Pip, this is Andrea Kirisra, better known as Andi."

"Pleased to—" she began, and then the door to the inner library burst open and three of the Palace Guard poured, their faces furious and flustered.

"You!" one shouted, pointing his sword accusingly at Ryan. "I want that statuette back! It's solid silver!"

Doe-eyed, baffled look. "I ain't taken nothin'. I like livin' here too much."

"You lying wretch," the guard snapped. "Who else steals round here, eh?"

"Well, your butler for a start," the boy retorted. "I used to fence things for him an' I can tell you for free that half the household staff are nickin' things-"

But Ryan's protestations of innocence appeared to be convincing no one. The guard stalked towards him, face grim. The way out was clearly blocked.

The street-boy let go of Andrea and edged over the nearest window. "Look, it weren't me!"

"You revolting thief!" the guard howled. "Who else is it going to be and-_you come back here right now_!"

In a fluid move, Ryan was out of the window and onto the narrow ledge outside. Pip and Andrea scurried after him, opening another window to watch. The ramparts ran only a couple of feet below, and Pip thought he would try and escape that way-

In an acrobatic act that made Pip catch her breath, Ryan grabbed the top window-ledge and pulled his body up and over into a handstand that turned into a roll, planting both feet square on the library roof, which fortunately for him, was fairly flat and tiled.

"He's mad," Andi hissed, clutching Pip's arm. "Living in a palace and he has to steal."

"Nothing's been proved yet," she pointed out reasonably. "Do you think he's done it?"

Her teeth were clamped to her bottom lip. "I don't know," Andrea mumbled at last. "He doesn't need to steal anymore, but...but it's like he feels he has to, just to prove to them all that he won't change because they think he should."

She could understand that. Pip knew too well the pressure of society on those who did not conform, even in a realm as tolerant as Tortall. "He shouldn't have run."

The guards scrambled through the window, dropping down onto the battlements. They tore along after him, warning Ryan he had better get down _right now_ or there would be trouble.

Andrea sighed. "It's all part of the fun to him. He misses the streets, I think."

"He'll hit them hard enough if he falls," she remarked.

"I know. There's no ramparts on the other side – why does he always have to do these stupid, dangerous things?"

"The guards can't get up there," Pip said. But she was worried – the library roof was slippery and in need of repair, and if he fell, it was a sheer drop down to the courtyard. One slip, and Ryan would be the world's largest, thinnest raw steak.

"Come on," Andi said grimly, to Pip's surprise hoisting herself out onto the ledge. There was the squeal of tearing fabric as her skirt caught on the stone. "I know what'll happen if I let that boy out of my sight, he'll-"

They both froze as they heard the thief's wild yell, and a terrible, flat thud.

X - X - X - X - X

He moved with a swift, darting ease that made the girls standing around the practice court gasp. The sword flickered back and forth, dancing in to clash and kiss his opponent's weapon with a sharp ring of metal. Parry, and thrust, and slice, and bring the sword round in a neat, perfect arc-

"Well, damn me," the Lioness said in astonishment as her sword flew into a corner. "I-"

Her words were drowned out by the spontaneous applause from the throngs of immaculately dressed noblewomen, who seemed to be in a running competition for most cleavage in smallest space.

Prince Roald winced, and gave the Lioness a thoroughly embarrassed look. That move had been pure fluke – he had been meaning to do something else entirely.

Her mouth twitched. "Don't look so aghast. You're not the first to disarm me, though you're the first one who's managed it by accident." She rubbed the small of her back. "I must be getting old."

He smiled sheepishly. "I'd better keep practicing."

The Lioness gave a barking laugh. "I think you've got worse things to fight off." Her eyes flicked to their audience. "If you think disarming me is tough, wait until the first one gets into your room."

His expression must have reflected his horror in precise measure because she chuckled wickedly, and slapped him on the back.

Gods, but he hated these cloying, clapping idiots. They followed him everywhere, and maybe Neal was right, he shouldn't have been polite and chivalrous, should have told them to take a long walk on a cliff in high winds, but-

"I don't know why they're applauding," his sister said, vaulting over the fence with the ease of practice. Her mouth was sullen, and she was in her customary gauzy wisps of fabric that showed more than they hid. "Look at you, dripping with sweat. Honestly, Roald, it's repulsive. Just because you can wave a bit of big metal about in fancy patterns, they think you're a man..."

There was no mistaking the bitterness in her voice. Kalasin had never forgiven their father for forbidding her from becoming a page. She had been forced to watch him moving through the knightly chain. From page to squire, and soon, Roald hoped, to knight.

"Did you come here to insult me?" Roald said in the bored voice that seemed to be the best way to stop Kally.

Eventually.

"Gods, no, you're not worth the waste of breath," she said contemptuously. "Lioness, I need a favour."

Bad choice of words.

The Lioness's coppery eyebrows lifted. "Need?"

There was a long silence, as his sister looked up from her dainty height of five foot four, with her black hair all neatly plaited and her barely-there clothes, and her acres of silver jewellery. He never dared push her in the pond anymore because he was afraid she'd sink without trace.

"Would like," she said finally, but there was no surrender in the regal tilt of her head.

If their father would make her a princess, she had told Roald eight years ago, when she began this stupid, selfish phase that hadn't ended, then she would be a princess. She would be feminine, and vapid, and demanding, and royal.

The Lioness wasn't known for her love of royalty.

"Go ahead, Lady Kalasin," Alanna said mildly. She shot a questioning look at him, but Roald only shrugged. He didn't know Kally anymore.

Kally laced her hands together in front of her, and put her best demure look on. "Sir Alanna, I shall be acquiring a bodyguard. A Carthaki bodyguard, as a gift from my..." Gritted teeth. "Betrothed."

She said it as less discerning women might say 'fungal infection'.

"How romantic," said the Lioness dryly.

Kalasin's forced smile had an edge of savagery. "I require that he be trained in the arts of Tortallan fighting. The Carthaki are little more than-" She caught herself, but the words still hung there.

Little more than savages.

"They are undisciplined," his sister said, a faint coral flush upon her pale cheeks. "It seems to me that the greatest fighter in the realm should teach him."

"Right now, that's your brother."

Kally didn't shift her eyes from the Lioness's face. From the corner of his eye, Roald could see the other pages and squires eyeing her, and made a mental note to chat to some of them later. And to tell Kally to get something that showed a lot less of her bosom. And midriff. And legs. And she could put a bag over her face too.

Alanna sighed finally, her eyes dark as a field of violets. "Oh, all right. Send him to me when he arrives."

She went to pick up her sword, leaving the two siblings in the centre of the court, and the centre of attention.

Both the Conte children had the luxuriant coal-black hair that caught red in sunlight, combined with the fiery azure stare of their father and the rich, curling mouth of their mother. But where Kally was slender and petite, Roald had gained his father's height, and no one knew at all where his unusually sweet temperament had come from.

"Coming to face the adoring crowds, brother dear?" Kally leaned forward and whispered confidentially, "They're all hoping the gallant Squire Roald will sweep them off their feet, you know. They think that one look at them in their pretty pink and purple, and you'll be so overcome you'll break off your engagement to your Yamani yawn and beg them to marry you."

Roald rolled his eyes, wishing, oh, wishing that he had been born without royal blood. "I know my duty."

Kally's face darkened. "As do I. And neither of us like it."

"I know," he said tiredly. "But sulking doesn't make it go away."

"And ignoring it does?"

She was right. His eyes grazed over the waiting, simpering noblewomen, and a positively wicked idea sprung into his head. No...they couldn't...

They would.

A sinful smile tugged at Roald's mouth, and Kally frowned as she saw it.

"Come on, then," he replied simply, taking her arm and giving her the conspiratorial smile of their childhood. "Why don't we go and cause a bit of a fuss?"

"What do you mean?"

"They say all us royals are arrogant bastards," Roald said wryly. "Let's prove them right."

Kally heard him out, and then her laugh rang out across the court. Prince and princess smiled, and strolled towards their infuriatingly thick-skinned admirers.

X - X - X - X - X

She drew back her lips and snarled.

The would-be robber made a noise in the back of his throat like a mewing kitten, then backed away.

"Get out of my way."

Her voice was lazy and deep, with a gravely lilt to it that made every word sound a promise...or a threat. She took a graceful step forward, her hips swaying.

Only a boy, she thought, with big scared eyes and ragged clothes. Only a boy, scraping a living the easiest way he could think of. Desperation lit his face like a candle flame, showing her all its flaws and shadows. The gauntness, the scarred nose, the cracked lips.

"I'm...I'm sorry, m'lady," he whispered, still backing away.

Still she stalked after him, moving like a snake given legs. She swept the fall of silver hair back, loose and streaming down to her calves clad in their good, expensive boots. Usually she kept it tied up and tamed for reasons of practicality; and because she hated the way it softened her face.

"Sorry?" She laughed, and the sound rippled as smoke on the breeze might. "I think you're sorry that you attacked the wrong person. I think you're sorry your pathetic life has come to this. But I don't think you're sorry for trying to rob me."

She strode into the light so he could see her proud face, with its aquiline nose that jutted like a beak, and her cruel mouth, curving into a cold smile that didn't touch the mirrors of her eyes.

Her eyes were black as pitch, eyes to see only the darkest, most dreadful facets of yourself in. Her gaze gave nothing away, and swallowed everything in.

His mouth slackened as he saw the globes on her gloves.

"So sorry," he whispered again, and shivered. But a little bit of hope gleamed in his eyes, because he knew what those globes meant. He knew what the Immortal animal embroidered on them meant, and he knew that the Shang had honour.

She folded her arms and stood still, tall and imperious in the bright light of the road. No dusty traveller this, but a Shang who lived from the land and roamed as her heart guided her.

And if she had no heart...?

"Perhaps you are," she said. "Come here, boy."

The hope blossomed into trust, his eyes lingering on her money pouch. A little step forward, and as she let her smile widen, another, and another until he was before her.

She unfolded her arms...and drew out the gleaming blades that had been strapped to her sides, the top of their hilts resting below her armpits.

She swung them once, her arms crossing over each other as the blades cut through his neck, one from each side.

They really were fiendishly sharp.

She stepped back and cast a professional eye over her handiwork. Very neat indeed, one clean cut, the blades passing across one another nicely. The smell of blood made her wrinkle her nose, and move away from the spreading pool of crimson.

"How sorry you are," she murmured, and walked away humming.

Only a boy. Only a corpse.

Her name was Yvenia, and she came from Carthak, a land of sun and swelter: a land in whose tongue her name meant 'the void.'

Her name was Yvenia, and she was the Shang Stormwing.

X - X - X - X - X

Sweat pearled on his forehead and slid down his back like the nervousness slid through his mind. His eyes were squinting, focused absolutely on his task.

"Concentrate," his father warned, calm and still in his mourning black.

Neal of Queenscove didn't look up from his patient. He kept his hands fixed over the gaping wound and tried not to shake.

All he could think of was the endless weapons drills he spent each morning doing, and it was driving him absolutely insane. Wounds, he told himself. Sutures, healing, not metal and screams.

A knight and healer. The two were absolutely opposite; one gave life, and the other severed it.

The girl moaned. She had been found lying half-dead in an alley, and her frantic family had begged at the palace gate for healing, unable to afford the city's healers and praying someone in the palace would care enough not to charge them.

"Concentrate, Neal," Duke Baird said gently, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. In the simple weight of it, Neal felt the burden that lay on him. The need to be a knight, to live up to the promise his brothers had shown. To heal as his father wished, to be everything he could.

But Neal was so, so terrified that he would be only nothing.

He tried to focus the beam of his magic more tightly on the wound, the vivid jade light spilling forth from his fingers in wavery rivulets, flowing over the massive gaping cut in her leg. He watched, relieved as flesh began to knit.

But he could feel his magic draining from him. Using too much, he thought, I'm not going to be able to heal it properly.

I have to, though. I can't let Father down.

He wouldn't let his father know how difficult he found healing. Small things; bruises, scrapes, easy. But this...he was beginning to pour his own life into it.

The pride in Duke Baird's voice buoyed him. "Good, Neal. You're doing well."

Just a few more drops, Neal urged himself. Just a little longer-

The wound was healed. The hand upon his shoulder lifted, and as Neal straightened, dizziness filled his head like a cloud billowing outwards, horribly thick and overwhelming.

"Excellent-"

Neal swayed, for a second tempted to tell his father to tell him what lay in his heart.

It was tearing Neal apart - he missed the lively university debates, the solitude of the library (where Pip was now, helping him with his history essay, he supposed), the calm pace of learning. But he loved the knight's life too; the fierceness of battle, the desperate patriotism of all the queen's horses and all the king's men.

The library and the tiltyard. The university and the battlefield. The magic – and the sad, fresh hillocks where his brothers lay buried. Giving his mind to the realm against giving his life to it.

Desire versus duty, always the same.

"Neal?" Concern in his father's voice. "Neal, are you all right-"

The giddiness took him over, and Neal felt his legs buckle under him, and was only dimly aware of the floor hitting him hard.

All the queen's horses and all the king's men...

But no one could put Neal of Queenscove back together again.

X - X - X - X - X

Pip and Andi tore along the spotted Ryan, a dark crumpled heap on the ground. The guards ringed him, bristling nad hostile.

Pip elbowed them inelegantly out of the way, gasping for breath. "Let...me...through."

She was nearly knocked over by Andi, who cannoned through to fling herself down by him. "Ryan, Ryan, Ryan, you stupid boy!"

The thief raised a grin for her, but Pip could see the pain cutting deep lines in his face. No one's leg should be at that angle.

"Oh, what have you done?" Andi said, her hands hovering over the broken bone. "I thought you said you never fall!"

"Even angels fall, lass," he muttered.

"You're a fool, Talver," she retorted, the worry vanishing from her pretty face. "And lucky for you, I can heal this."

"Anyways," he said, grimacing as she put her hands either side of the broken bone. "I didn't fall 'cause I lost my balance, I fell because-aaaargh!"

Pip had never seen anyone heal a broken bone - in fact, she had been told it wasn't possible, but to the open-mouthed stares of everyone surrounding them, a pulsing golden flame rippling around Andi's hands, and she simply snapped the bone back into place.

"Mithros' blessed blue socks," she heard one guard whisper. "What in hell are these children?"

"Mages," another said softly. "They aren't normal, Rob. Not even close."

The girl sat back on her haunches, pushing strands of hair from her eyes. "There," she said, satisfied. "Fixed."

"That hurt," Ryan said indignantly. But he tentatively stood, testing his weight on his leg. A slow grin spread over his face. "Well, paint me silver an' call me a stormwing! It's healed! You're a godsend, lass."

"And you're under arrest," a guard said, wiping the startled expression from his face. "You don't thieve in this palace, my lad, and get away with it."

Ryan gave him an injured look. "I told you, it weren't me. But I know who...or what it was."

"What do you mean?" the guard said.

"Like I were sayin'," he drawled, "I didn't fall off 'cause I lost my balance. I'd a' been dead long afore now if I'd done that on the streets. I fell off because you got harpies nestin' on your roof."

X - X - X - X - X


	4. Chapter Three

Firstly, my humble apologies that this has taken so shamefully long; between illness, overtime that involved 5am risings, and the events of the last week, things have been - to say the least - hectic. I'd just like to say a massive thanks to all of you who have been so wonderfully patient and amazing; I've loved hearing your thoughts, ideas, and general kickings of the ass.:-) 

Comments are always much adored; I treasure and savour your opinions.

Hope you enjoy,  
Ki

**A Lady's Shield: Chapter Three**

The Phoenix came down from the mountains in the spring, chasing the melting snows. Before her flew the rumours, and behind her nested the truth.

The rumours shouted of a girl unique, who moved with the lightness of a butterfly and the surety of a panther. Who could crush men with a stare, and kill with a touch. A temptress beyond dreams, yet somehow real in this world of harsh realities.

The truth whispered reverently of a graceful thing, who still stumbled like anyone else, who was a pyre among the dark and dour northern people with her sunlit spill of flaming hair, whose voice was honey in the sunlight, a girl who healed and helped, and touched the hearts of all she met.

Many hearts were touched with love, with respect, with pleasure.

Some were touched by awe, a little fear perhaps, with admiration.

But some were seared by envy, by jealousy, by a hatred of all that she represented and all that they would never be.

In the Phoenix's wake came the hunters.

* * *

Prince Roald swept his sapphire stare over the assembled people, Kally on his arm standing as tall and slender as she could manage, which considering her lack of height, wasn't very. He'd never been a big fan of crowds, but this one was making him so annoyed that he even managed to overcome his bashfulness.

They keep telling me I'm my father's son, Roald thought. Well, I'll be him.

"We thought we'd have a game," he drawled, and the Lioness, walking away from the practise court, thought for a moment that Prince Jonathan of old stood there, lofty and arrogant as he could often be.

Roald paused, and let a lazy, feline smile slip over his face.

The girls beamed back, unused to seeing the quiet, self-possessed prince smiling. Roald's friends hastily began to edge away, recognising it as the same kind of smile that was most commonly seen on sharks.

"The winner," Kally purred, "gets..." he knew without looking that she was lowering her lashes demurely, "a kiss from whichever of us you want. Obviously no word of this will reach our parents."

A brief, excited mutter of assent. Line, hook and sinker, Roald thought triumphantly.

"All you have to do," Roald said sweetly, "is answer a riddle."

Brows were drawn now. Noblewomen frowned prettily, or behind fans if they couldn't manage that, and pages looked wary and intrigued. There were plenty of intelligent people in the Palace - but one thing Roald and Kally had noticed was that the people who followed them around were significantly lacking in wits.

"It's very simple really," Kally said. "Listen closely, darlings, we wouldn't want you to miss anything." She paused, then her cool voice rang over the utter hush of the place.

"Wingless I fly and mindless I seek

I sometimes am true but never can lie

I once had a heart though it never beat

And where I am legion, men often die."

There was a busy silence, the silence caused by two dozen people trying to think.

Roald and Kally looked at each other, and in his sister's eyes, he saw the laughter she was holding back, tugging at her mouth.

"Oh," he added, apparently casually, "and to make it fair...everyone gets one guess, and one guess only. And so we can't be accused of helping anyone, we've decided not to speak to any of you until you've guessed." He winked. "Have fun."

"We'll see you in...oh...a thousand years?" Kally said to their admirers.

And leaving a flummoxed gathering behind, prince and princess exited.

* * *

Harpies?

Pip had heard the name - somewhere - dimly, but she couldn't remember what they were. Instead she, like everyone else, looked at the roof, where there was nothing to be seen but the graceful arch of the sky, and back at Ryan, who had the wounded, glowering look of the terminal liar who had just decided to tell the truth.

"There are _what_nesting on the roof?" one of the guards said.

Ryan glared. "Harpies," he replied. "You know, damn great winged things with women's bodies, an' lion's claws, an' dragon wings? Them as steal anythin' that shines, an' lives in nests high up?"

The guard snorted. "Pull the other one, lad. You think we wouldn't know if there were harpies on the roof? We've all heard the legends - they make a racket like you've never heard. They're supposed to deafen a man with one word."

Ryan gestured to the roof, his face tight with irritation. "Go an' look. I ain't lyin'!"

Something in his voice must have convinced the guards. "All right," one said shortly. He glared at Ryan. "But if you're lying..."

"I only lie when it's goin' to get me out of trouble, not into it," Ryan snapped. "Why don't you take your overbearin', annoyin' friends onto that roof an' look?"

"Rob, stay here," the guard who seemed to be their leader ordered. He had a craggy, leathered face with narrow eyes that had crow's feet spreading from the edges. A man past his prime, Pip judged. "The rest of you, we'll go and investigate this...this fabrication."

The youngest guard nodded nervously and tightened his grip on his sword. "Sir."

When they were gone, Ryan heaved an exasperated sigh and had there been a brick there, Pip suspected he would have heaved that after their departing backs too. "Morons."

"Just because they don't like you," Andi began, until he quelled her into silence with a star-bright glare.

"They only like you because you're little an' delicate an' pretty," he pointed out levelly. "Bet you if I dressed in them peasant girl clothes, they'd like me too."

The image made Pip grin. "Actually," she said, "I think they'd fear you. But you're right. They're all snobs, the guards. They like what's in fashion, and what's in fashion is honour and strength in men, and beauty and fragility in women."

The grey eyes, slightly startled, swung to meet hers. "That's us screwed then," Ryan commented dryly.

"You have honour!" Andi protested, nudging him in the ribs. "You didn't steal that statuette even though they-"

Then she stopped, and the most horrified expression crossed her face, making Pip wonder what on earth was wrong with the girl.

Andrea's golden eyes were spitting. "Since when has your stomach been rock-solid?" she hissed, obviously trying to keep her voice down.

Ryan shot a look at the guard. "Pip, can you do a little...uh...diversion on him?" he hissed. "She's goin' to start yellin' soon-"

"You're damn right I am, you stupid, idiotic thie-"

The guard - Rob, was it? - was looking over and Pip hastily grabbed his arm and spun him around so he couldn't see the furious gestures of Andrea which suggested Ryan's imminent dismemberment.

"So," she said brightly, "how long have you been a guard then?"

She could just hear them arguing in soft, hushed but livid voices. ("I'm just muscled, lass."

"Muscled?" Step forward, and the girl's face was taut with vexation. "You're a human rake!")

Rob, who had extraordinarily bright blue eyes, like a piece of the sky had been chopped away and set into his face, looked bashful. "Not long, miss. Nearly a moon now."

("Show me what's under your shirt!" the girl was demanding-)

Rob half turned, and Pip gave a little laugh and putting two fingers under his chin, turned his head back.

(Ryan was looking coy, something she would never have thought he could pull off with any conviction. From what court gossip said, Ryan was about as pure as mud. "I have my male modesty!" he declared.)

Those big, astonished blue eyes really were arresting. "Miss...?"

"Oh, ignore them, they're always arguing about trivialities," Pip said brightly. She didn't want to get Ryan into any more trouble than he was obviously in with Andrea - she liked what little she had seen of him. He hadn't treated her like Phillippa ha Minch, court outcast. "Tell me, Rob," she rolled the 'r' a little, and made her voice breathy like the court flirts. She wished that she had the looks to match, but she would have to hope sheer shock would keep him distracted. "What do you like _most_ about your job?"

(Andrea yelped. "Modesty? You were walking around half-naked last week!"

The thief cast an anxious look at Pip. "Keep your voice down! Anyway, you're always tellin' me I should develop morals an' now I have, you're wantin' me to strip-")

"Uh..." Rob was flushing. He had an open face, with those round eyes above a nose which had obviously been broken once from the crooked line of it, and a smattering of freckles along his cheekbones. "The...uh...I...uh..."

Pip leaned even closer.

("That's it!" the mage-girl snapped, and prodded Ryan in the chest. "I can feel that statuette. You did take it! How could you?"

"Well, I just picked it up an'-"

A hiss of exasperation. "You know that's not what I mean! And you lied and spun them that stupid tale about harpies-")

Rob seemed to be having trouble getting the words out. He stepped back nervously, and the summer sky eyes looked anywhere but at her.

"Oh, am I too close?" Pip purred. "Silly little me..."

("I wasn't ly-)

"Um...m'lady..." Rob uttered, looking around desperately. "I..."

The scream sliced across the air like an axe.

And then the guard came flying over them, tumbling like a child's rag doll onto the courtyard far below.

"Oh gods!" Pip heard herself say, clutching at Rob with no predatory intention, only pure human need to cling to someone.

Her world seemed to slow them, time moving as if underwater with exaggerated and snail-crawling motion. In her ears, that scream deepened and echoed, bouncing about the hollowed cavern of her mind, the only sound in a world that had become inevitable and terrible.

A moment ago, her heart had been light. Now, coldness seeped in and filled her, reducing her to merely a watcher, powerless.

Turquoise fire streaked past hers eyes, following that fatal plummet.

Yes, yes, that was how it should be, Ryan and Andrea, these two astonishing and gods-gifted children would save the guards who were tumbling, one, two, three, like so many pebbles in a boy's careless throw. As the last cartwheeled past, limbs flailing, she snatched an awful glimpse of the fixed and vapid expression on his face.

Mithros mighty, he was only a boy.

But Andrea and Ryan would save them, surely they would...as those darts of fire slipped past her, reaching to those men who moved faster even than their magick, plunging down, down from her vision.

No! They had to save them. They had to. It was how the world worked-

The thuds that sounded in her ears were deafening, and utterly final. It was the sound of the human form giving way to stone and speed.

She didn't realise that she had turned her face away until she lifted it from Rob's shoulder. But he seemed to have gone strangely boneless, and as she let go of him, he fell to his knees, gasping.

His wheezing grated along her ears, sawing at her. Still her world spun in submarine slowness, and she seemed to move through treacle.

And because she had to, because she could not walk away without looking, for surely she owed those dead guards that much, Philippa ha Minch shuffled to the ramparts, unaware that her breath was briefly trapped in her throat. Looked over.

For seconds that passed like aeons, she saw only meaningless shapes, and people below crying out and running over. Some were held still by what they saw; others were anxious to help those shapeless carcasses that were beyond all aid.

That was the moment when Pip realised that life did not have a happy ending.

She didn't know until far, far later, but it was the moment when the resolution turned from cloud to steel in her heart; that the only way anyone could have any control was to make their own ending. And that she would make and control hers. That, she knew later.

But now, she only heard the swishing, leathery sound of massive wings and again that keening and shrill scream.

She didn't think she could drag her eyes from that scene of devastation, but somehow she did.

There was Ryan, staring at his hands in disbelief, unable to comprehend that his magick had not worked. Andrea was somehow calmer, if pale, for she was a healer and maybe she understood that you could save most, but you could not save all.

And beyond...

It was perched on the roof, hunkered down like an animal. Its feet were hooked and clawed, the same smooth and deep shark-blue as its skin. The body was that of a woman, the hands clenched at the side of the thing, as it rocked back on its heels and screamed and screamed and screamed triumphantly.

Pip had clapped her hands to her ears, but it was no shield against the shriek that drilled through her head.

She couldn't stop staring at it. It was like nothing she had ever seen, and the worst of it was the fact it was so human. Its face was scrunched up in rage, tilted to the heavens, and a ragged firestorm of orange hair shivered down to its waist.

The sound seemed to go on forever, pouring out like a river of acid while the four of them were frozen.

She had never felt so helpless, so useless, such a waste.

She could see Andrea's mouth moving, as the girl, a slender flame in this moment of darkness, shook a frozen, shocked Ryan hard. Strange, Pip would have thought the streetrat would have coped better with this, but Andrea acted as though she was used to death.

It lent Pip a kind of strength. After all, Andrea was just a fragile girl, a tiny thing spun from magick and minutiae. But she was coping, thinking clearly. And if she could, Pip could.

What can I do? she asked herself. There must be something, anything, I can't stand around like one of those useless noblewomen.

That thought galled her, so she took her hands from her ears - they made no difference anyway - and looked for something to do.

She couldn't stop the harpy. It was immortal, and she wasn't. Pip had no urge to be a hero - particularly not a dead one.

That was Ryan and Andrea's territory; and she could see them link hands as the streetboy nodded slowly, though a blank horror was set on his face. Gold and turquoise fire haloed them, and they seemed immortal themselves at that moment, set alight by divine fire that slowly turned to a single, smouldering emerald colour as their power combined.

Leave the harpy to them, she told herself, for a moment briefly envious. They could stop this.

The guards were dead. Nothing she could say or do would alter that. She pushed away the horror, the nausea that roiled in her stomach. She could cry and retch later, but now, there had to be something she could do-

Rob was curled on the floor, and she could see he had his hands covering his face, fingers flexing spasmodically. He was so young, she thought painfully, only a boy, and he had just seen his friends recklessly killed. They hadn't been faces to him, but people.

She crouched down by him, ignoring the blood that was starting to trickle from her abused ears, and put a hand on his shoulder.

Sometimes, all you could do was be there.

She couldn't imagine what he saw when he looked up. Words spilled from his lips, but she couldn't hear them at all.

What could she say? Nothing that would help him.

The emerald fire around Andrea and Ryan was narrowing now, shaping into an arrowhead of light aimed at the harpy.

She had never been good with advice or counsel. So she just treated him like she might one of her younger nephews, and awkwardly hugged him.

His head went into her shoulder, just like a terrified child, and she could feel him shaking. Uneasily, Pip patted his shoulder. No one had ever told her how to cope with crying men. It was assumed among the nobles of Tortall that women wept and men warred.

The harpy stopped to draw breath-

The emerald fire seemed to spring forward, flashing straight and true at the immortal. In the astonishing buzzing left by the absence of that inhuman howl, Pip's shocked intake of breath sounded like bellows.

It hit.

A light so fabulously bright it burned a crimson imprint of her veins on her shut eyelids onto her vision. And not a sound, not a whisper from the creature, or perhaps she simply couldn't hear.

When she opened her eyes, an odd grey powder drifted through the air, settling on her as confetti might.

The ashes of the harpy.

* * *

The village was small, the last before she came to the glittering urban sprawl of Corus, but the men guarding it were fierce. They were like dogs, she thought, dogs panting before a fight. She could see the wild whites of their eyes, and the tight grip of their hands on their weapons.

The Shang Stormwing arched her eyebrows. "Good morning."

"Get out."

She marked the man who spoke as their leader. Not the tallest or the strongest, but the boldest, certainly.

"Is that how you greet travellers these days?" she said smoothly. The Carthaki accent made her voice rich and rolling, caressing as a writhing snake. "Have the smallfolk lost all regard for the Shang?"

"We'll greet Shang," the man said stoutly. "We won't greet murderers."

She saw women, peering from doorways, clutching their children to their skirts. Thin and worried faces, people struck by poverty but fighting back. She'd been born in a place like this, in the dry dust of Carthak.

She'd been a child once.

Yvenia gave him a tiny bow, pressing her palms together. "I? A murderer? I am Shang, and I kill only when I must."

"Ain't what the rumours say," he answered. None of them moved an inch. "Three of my people found a body on the road yesterday."

"A robber," she said carelessly. "A bad one."

She fixed her dark eyes on him, eyes that were cold and ruthless, and waited. He was intelligent enough to read in them her message: he could make this easy, or he could make it difficult. And she would like the difficult way.

He persisted, his broad face showing no amity. Obtuse man. "He's not the only one. We've friends in other villages."

Have you now? she noted silently. Little folk, sticking together over little matters. A body here, a corpse there - who cared? She took life cleanly, at least. The death of her parents had not been clean. Burned alive, burned because they had the courage to stand up to Emperor Ozorne.

And only a Shang man had plucked her from the pyre, only one foreign man among the villagers whose children she had played with. He had waited for the horrific burns on her legs and arms to heal (though they would never vanish) and taught her his dark, bloody art for reasons known only to himself.

She had learned from him, and kept revenge in her heart like a frozen flame, ready to burn at her will.

In these villagers' faces, she saw again herself strapped to that pyre, watching them and knowing they would never help her. Knowing that she had to die because of one word from a man who sat on a throne and knew nothing about her.

"I kill when I must," she said flatly. "A robber on the road, yes, a fraud in that last village, and a rapist-"

"They never proved he was!" a voice flashed out. It was a young woman, a tough and swarthy creature with clenched fists.

"Only because you lied for him," someone else said sharply, and for a moment, their show of unity disintegrated into petty quarrels.

The headman raised his axe, and it shone bright in the sun. The only clean thing around here, Yvenia reflected.

"Enough!" he boomed, but people still muttered.

"I was asked to dispense justice by one of his victims," Yvenia said, looking proudly at them from the arch of her nose. "I did."

"Who are you to say who lives and dies?" the same woman said, her eyes two hard green pebbles.

Her smoky laugh startled them. "I am the Shang Stormwing," she answered. "And I am immortal."

"We could test that," the woman spat. She stepped out of the horde, brave, if about to be very short-lived. Yvenia didn't even bother to move into a fighting stance. One blow would knock the fool senseless.

"The gods chose me for this," she said smoothly.

And she believed it.

Why else had she been saved? Why else was she touched by silver, the godsfire, and plucked from the kiss of mortal flames? Why else was she given such a gift to kill, if not to use it? She was their sword, and she cut down those who were not worthy.

And if she never heard their voices, well, she knew that the gods spoke through her own thoughts. Nothing she did could be wrong, because she was a child of the gods.

It was her belief, it was what had held her revenge steady all these years. It was what had kept her strong while the ghastly burns healed, what had held her to the hard Shang life. It had made her into a human weapon, a thing of deadly accuracy and wickedly honed logic.

There was only one small flaw to Yvenia's logic.

She was entirely wrong.

* * *

The world dawned back in on Neal slowly, waveringly.

"Ah, you're awake." The calm voice was his father's, and as he blinked, he recognised the face above him, and the hands that sat him up gently. "Overdid it there, son," he chided mildly. "Next time, don't try to heal if you're that drained. Suppose you collapse in the middle of battle?"

His father frowned, and sent a last pulse of healing into him.

"You must put yourself before your patients." Neal could see his own face in his father's features, and seemed to see the future he would never have. No university and education for Neal, only knighthood and hardship. "Healers are few and far between."

"Sorry," Neal mumbled. He still felt fatigued, but the room no longer spun dizzyingly.

"Having said that," and the sternness left his voice, to be replaced by a warming approval. "That was very well done, very well done indeed."

Neal forced a wan smile, and carefully swung his feet off the bed someone had placed him on. And now it would be back to the endless training with the Lioness, and back to the battles, and back to taking lives and saving lives, and feeling the healer in him cringe at every cut he made, and the warrior in him spitting contempt at every moment he stopped to cure and aid.

He didn't know who he was, what he was, or even what he wished he was.

Too many people, expecting too many things.

He needed to get out, to get away, to escape, just for a little while. And as it happened, his luck was about to change. Along with a few other things.

* * *

Evening was curling over the earth as Pip went to the wide, empty room where she did her training with the Shang. She felt numb within, as if the part of her that should have been outraged had been torn clean out.

There had been interrogations all afternoon from the guards, from the Provost, from Sir Myles, from the Wildmage, from Master Salmalin, from every court dignitary of any importance. She, Ryan, Andrea and Rob had been pushed from room to room and inquiring face to inquiring face.

All it did was reinforce how helpless she had been.

Her daily training with the Shang warriors had begun as a punishment for her recklessness and turned into a joy.

The Shang warriors weren't there when she entered, but she launched into her warm-up routine anyway. It was a dance almost, that she had developed since she was five, when the first Shang had come to Westos, the ha Minch home, and Pip had coerced him into training her.

There had been a string of them, all teaching her older brother Shang ways to help him when he became a page. Some had been reluctant to teach her, some eager, but all had given way under Pip's burning desire to escape the dreadful fate - as she saw it - of becoming a vacuous, ineffective court creature.

It wasn't proper Shang training, of course, the Shang had told themselves as they taught this odd, noble child. After all, it was only an hour a day, and only the most basic moves.

They never knew that Pip would practise those moves every night until she ached, and that she had been fed on the legends of the Dragon, the Unicorn, the Kestrel.

In time, it became mere habit, incorporated into the repulsive dance lessons her parents insisted on, and later used to repel men with wandering hands. Mingled with the acrobatic moves she had demanded a court tumbler teach her, it became a fast and furious collection of martial art and marital art. For more than a decade, she had kicked and punched the air as other girls filled it with dreams of handsome men.

And now, as she went through the movements, teeth gritted, it was the mirage of the harpy she struck at; as she leapt, it was to catch those hurled guards, and every move was edged with desperation. Over and over she repeated them, until desperation faded, replaced by only by the need for perfection and precision.

In focusing on her actions, she no longer had space for emotion and thought as well. She could forget.

When she stopped, panting for breath and bending over to try and stop the stitch in her side, she was aware of nothing and no one else until a dry voice remarked,

"It's lucky you're only boxing at shadows."

Startled, Pip shot upright, and found the Wildcat staring at her with thoughtful eyes, slapping a glove on one leg. Her ever-present grandmotherly air was merely a silken layer covering her core of hardest iron.

"I fear for any enemy that comes across you today," the woman said and flashed a dour smile. "That was impressive."

Pip couldn't stop the flare of resentment. "I did come across one," she said with more curtness than she intended. "I couldn't do a thing."

The Wildcat shrugged. "It was a magic creature. What magic makes, only magic can break in the end. Harpies have witched voices, girl, and not you or I or Hakuin, or even the Dragon himself could have stopped it."

"But I should have done something!" Pip said angrily. She gestured to the room. "What's the use in this if all I can do is stand by and watch?"

"You have to choose your battles," the Wildcat answered, and there was genuine regret in her voice. "It's a hard lesson, and one we all learn. You can't defeat everyone, and you can't save every life. From what I hear, you did well. You didn't panic."

But I came so close, Pip thought. I nearly did.

For a moment, she couldn't think how to reply, then remembered her manners and curtsied. "Thank you," she answered, watching her teacher warily. There was something worrying in the Wildcat's expression.

"No, no," the Wildcat sighed. The small, wiry woman shook her head. "Curtsying is for nobles, not warriors, and when you are in this room, you are no noble. We bow." She paused, and walked towards Pip. "Yes...that was very impressive. I could easily have mistaken you for one of us."

Pip smiled awkwardly, flicking perspiration from her cheeks and nose. "I don't think so," she said lightly as she could. The Shang woman was circling her, stalking around her in a motion both assessing and calculated.

She didn't even know the Wildcat had attacked until she found her body automatically blocking the savage kick. This was new, and unexpected.

"Good," the woman said in her husky, sardonic voice.

A feint to her left, and Pip's legs seemed to leap of their own accord to avoid the sly move that nearly dislodged her feet from beneath her.

The Wildcat's grey eyes narrowed, and then came a barrage of blows and kicks so fast Pip couldn't have kept track of them if she tried, yet somehow she blocked and dodged them, her heart screaming fit to burst in her chest and her stitch cramping her entire left side.

The kick that finally knocked her to the floor was a sharp, vicious snap of the Wildcat's leg that hit her square in the chest.

"Yes..." the woman said calmly. "I could almost have mistaken you for one of us."

Pip looked up. The Wildcat no longer seemed so slight and slender, but towered above her. The face was darkened from this angle, more imperious.

"And," the woman said, half-wondering, "if you hadn't noble blood, I might consider..."

Frozen, Pip couldn't understand what she was talking about, her green eyes hazy with confusion, and her hair darkened by perspiration and clinging to her face and neck.

Then the Shang woman shook her head violently, the cap of silvery curls bouncing. "But you have, and there's a reason why we have such rules. Hundreds of years of Shang tradition can't be wrong."

"I don't understand," Pip said, baffled.

The woman gave her a hand up. "Don't worry about it," she said casually. "Just an old woman's senile ramblings."

The thought of anyone calling the Wildcat old or senile made Pip smile wanly.

"Better!" the Wildcat proclaimed, pointing a finger at her. "Now, let's get started on your lesson. Hakuin's busy giving those ruffians that pretend to be pages a good runabout." Her smile was wicked. "So no slacking today! You'll earn your supper tonight, girl."

That was certainly true - but Pip still found her mind drifting back to the Wildcat's pensive, unfinished thought, and wondered what she had been going to say.

* * *

Thanks for reading - I'd love, love, love to know what you think!

My thanks go out to the utter angels and absolute deities of you who reviewed last time round - you made my various days :-) Thank you;

The awesome Alastriona: Start writing in the middle of the story and work back from there :-) I find it really difficult finding a place to start too. Thanks :-) I try to make it interesting for everyone (and the cliffhangers help me keep writing, I am absolutely plagued by procrastination.).

The jazzy Jade Dragon's Sister: Well, uh, so much for the soon...but thanks for the encouragement! It's hugely appreciated :-)

The cherished Chip: Hey, I hope you had a good vacation (I feel like I need one myself now - two weeks back at school and I'm a gibbering wreck. Well...more of a gibbering wreck, anyway.) Thanks :-) I had fun thinking up that twist...and much to my surprise, it actually fits the rest of the story!

The terrific Tsurara Kimiro::looks innocent and twiddles thumbs:: I'm saying nothing, nothing at all. But I like playing about with relationships...they switch and swap like nobody's business. Thanks, chica!

The magnificent Myst: I'm sure it was a good series! Ack, FFNet keeps on collapsing like nobody's business, poor little thing. What's Dark Arts? A HP fanfic site? Hmm, Kel and Ryan, I'm shuffling characters all over the place at the mo; I'm not entirely comfortable with using TPs characters, a) because I can't write 'em like she does b) I feel guilty c) I seem to write better when I'm writing with my own. Baird doesn't know about how hard Neal's been pushing himself; you're right though on the responsibilities of Healers - it's an intriguing conflict. Thanks :-)

The quirky Quartz: Salutations, O leader of the Qs (and how many of you are there, pray tell, or will the answer terrify me?) Urgh, two hours of sleep...after a few days, I'm a non-person. I'm not entirely sure where the phoenix thing is going, but I know it will tie in somehow! Moi? Kill a main character off? Would I:;smiles sweetly:: I've only done it...hang on...four times before. Go, get some sleep!

The lovely Lazy: At the moment, the entire story is flashback. The Phoenix flashbacks are going back about 50-100 years. The flashbacks with all the other characters are going back 2-3 months. It's leading up to Chapter One, which was set in the present. Pip and Neal...hmm...I shall remain tactfully silent. Thanks!

The resplendent Ra3212: Technically, Pip's only had 'official' Shang training for a month or two. Actually, she's conned, cajoled or bribed every Shang she's met into teaching her something. So she's been doing it since she was 5, it's just that no one told the Shang :-) Thanks everso!

The luminous Larzdinn: Thank you for reviewing::grimace:: I do try to catch the typos, but some always seem to elude me - sorry about that. Ikea, it's good that FFN is finally working (shame they took the review alert off though, I hardly ever use the actual site.) A thousand thanks!

The lively Lady: I feel pretty out of touch myself! Sorry you had to wait for this one :-) I'm trying to juggle a lot of things at the moment (I have to apply for university for tomorrow, ack!) Merci beaucoup!

The marvellous Michelle: Yeah, the Stormwing ain't exactly anyone's friend ;-) And as for Ryan and Kel, ah well, we'll see. Thanks!

The lucid Lady Tiger: Thank you...gosh, I'm knocked out :-) I just...really love writing. It's the best way to express yourself I can think of (except maybe music.) Pip and Ryan both feature highly in this story (technically, it's Pip's), and I'm with you on the thief front - it's just an interesting balance between morals and survival. My thanks.

The bubbly Briar's Rose: Hey, I'm thrilled you enjoyed! I hope you like the rest :-) Thanks!

The nirvanic Naavi: Well, it hasn't existed that long :-) And it's not exactly been updated of late...Thanks! It's wonderful that you liked it :-) Hopefully it will be a little smoother than HO, which was a bit of a mess. SO much for soon ;:grimace:: My apologies - but better late than never? Grazie!

The heavenly Harkly: Yup, a sequel:-) I'm surprised I ever actually got started, but hopefully the parts will come a little faster now. I'm going to try and develop the characters a lot more...they deserve it, poor souls. I don't know if Daine will show yet :-) Depends where it goes - thanks muchly!

The natty Naeve: Heya, I'm trying to update, but I didn't realise quite how long it had been since I posted! I'll try and add to the Cold Ones soon (Chimera is okay, that one's going fine.) I love LJS books :-) It's just a shame that the 10th hasn't materialised. I haven't read them, but I'll take a look this weekend :-) Thanks!

The radiant Rogue: Thanks - I just enjoy writing :-) It's my stress-buster (and my let's-not-do-homework project.). I'm uttely elated that you're enjoying it - thanks!

The zesty Zeffer: Thank you - and for the kick in the ass to get this part out :-) It was much appreciated.

The harmonious Hyperchick88: Thank you, and I just did :-)


	5. Chapter Four

My apologies for how awfully, horribly, despicably long this has taken to get up. Life got busy all of a sudden, and something had to go; it was this, or it was my sanity, such as it is. Sorry...but thank you to everyone who commented last time round (all those aeons ago). I really appreciated it. 

I'd love to hear what you think; comments, criticisms, all is adored, pored over, cherished and worshipped.

Hope you enjoy!  
Ki

**A Lady's Shield: Chapter Four**

Unstoppable, unbelievable, unearthly. The Phoenix, flying high above the world, leaving trails of fire behind her.

The Phoenix, invincible, invulnerable, inhuman.

She moved south through the land, bringing certainty in a time of uncertainty; people watched her pass through them and knew that a legend was walking in their lifetime.

And behind her...the hunters, swift and slinking, moving in her shadow, unseen, unheard.

Dragons were slain by her, and their children dragged from their mouldering lairs. True, so true, but the tales of the Phoenix forgot that not all those children lived. Ogres brought down by her courage. True, so true, but the myth did not recall that the Phoenix nearly died herself. The almighty Shang Cobra, a warrior gone mad and turning from the law to slaughter without care, falling to her feet and weeping for all he had done, forgiven by this firebird. True, so true, but the legend never spoke of how, after she forgave him, she took an axe, and hewed his head from his body, because forgiveness is not forgetting.

Legends like happy endings.

Life does not.

The Phoenix knew that sometimes, the ending could not be happy. And when the world began to shape her into someone she could not be, she would fly back to her nest, and fly back to the people who were the foundations of her world.

And suppose someone knocked away the foundations...?

Legends like happy endings.

Hunters do not.

* * *

"Oh, I _ache_," Pip moaned as she sank onto one of the long tables that made up the dining hall of the palace. Halfway through the meal already, she noticed grumpily. "The Wildcat's such a tyrant. There's a lean mean slavedriving machine inside that innocent old lady. She'll kill me one day-"

And then she remembered the dead men, and flushed at her awful and tactless words.

"I didn't mean that..." she said in a low voice.

Ryan shrugged morosely. He wasn't gobbling his food in the usual may-never-see-tomorrow way, but picking at it. "S' all right, Mule, I keep doin' it too." The eyes that lifted to her were lost and smouldering, the same deep grey as thunderclouds. "I can't stop seein' 'em, just flyin' through the air like that-"

"Stop it!" Andrea snapped. Her lips were pursed, and the golden eyes held a little-seen fire in them. "Now you listen to me, Ryan, we tried to save them. You warned them-"

"I shoulda' said more-"

She clamped a hand over his mouth. "They wouldn't have believed you! Thieves get short shrift round here, you know that. We tried our best, and maybe our best wasn't enough this time, but you cannot save everyone. And yes, it hurts when you can't, but that's how the world is."

He took her hand away, and there was a stiffness to his movements that warned Pip this was winding into a truly explosive dispute. "I'd a' thought you'd understand. You're a healer-"

"Yes," Andi cut in, her expression blackening into a scowl, "and we know that you can't save them all, Ryan Talver. You try and you try, but you'll always lose some. And maybe you don't like it, but you have to accept it."

"You brought me back from the Realms of the Dead," he pointed out, much to Pip's astonishment.

"That was different," Andi said with a sigh. "How can a thief be so idealistic?"

"You think just because I'm a thief I'm bad?" His dark hair was thrust back from his stare in one quick, angry gesture as he leaned in to Andrea. "Is that what this is about?"

"Ryan," Pip put in hastily, because she could see where this was going, "she didn't mean it that way-"

The furious glare was turned on her. "No? Why don't you tell me what she meant then, _noble_?"

Like a cornered creature, she thought, snapping and snarling to keep people away. The words stung bitterly, but she reminded herself that she mustn't get angry, she should remember that his day hadn't been a dream either.

"You got it so easy," he continued, that sculpted face animated with rage. "Born with money, what have you ever wanted? All you got to do is find some man to marry, an' you ain't got to do anythin' for the rest of your life!"

That's not fair, she wanted to say. That's not who I am.

"Playin' your little games, ain't you?" he hissed, and the poison in his voice shocked her, but not as much as the anguish in his eyes, the tearing guilt. "Just fillin' up your time playin' at bein' Shang, an' then you'll move onto your next hobby, an' what will you ever do for the world? Just leech it dry, bleed the poor folk poorer. You're useless, all you nobles an', an'..."

Something fractured in his face, and he was on his feet and almost sprinting from the hall, a lithe blur of dark.

Pip stared after him, stunned.

"Oh...I'm sorry..." an anguished voice said. Andrea was pushing herself up too, casting agonized glances between Pip and the thief's retreating figure. "He's just been so upset, and he can't even talk to Kel...I...I'd better go after him. I'm sorry, Pip, he didn't mean any of it-"

Her words trailed off as she ran out after him.

"Kel?" she asked to the rest of the table at large, who were trying to pretend they hadn't heard anything.

Neal of Queenscove's emerald eyes met hers for a second, and she thought how oddly pale and strained her was looking. She knew Neal, and she resolved to find out what was wrong with him. "Keladry of Mindelan."

"Oh, the female squire," she said, and saw a muscle flicker in Neal's cheek. "Friend of yours?"

"Yes," he said shortly, then with his usual elephantine subtlety, changed the subject. "Where do you disappear off to every evening? Are they hazing noblewomen or something?"

Pip pulled a face at him. "Don't be stupid, Neal. Hazing with nobles never stops. No, I have training."

"Training?" he frowned. "For that long? With who?"

"The Shang Masters." Neal looked at her properly, and must have noted her practical clothing. The other boys around the table looked surprised, except for Prince Roald, who smiled as if quietly amused. "It's a punishment. Just one I happen to enjoy."

"But you're gone most of every evening," he protested.

She shrugged. "I train three hours a day."

"Three hours?" Neal exclaimed. He looked at her, mouth half-open in an amazingly life-like goldfish impression. "Pip, we only train for one! You weren't kidding about the Wildcat being a slaver, were you?"

She felt a smile curve up her mouth. Honestly, even Neal was so old-fashioned in some ways. "Not at all. I chose how long to train for."

"But why?" Neal said, completely baffled.

She shrugged, moving food around on her plate. "I like it. That's all."

"Batty," her squire friend said dourly. "Why are all the women I know mad?"

"Takes one to know one," Roald said cheerfully. It was a rare comment from the taciturn prince - who was looking very pleased with himself tonight. Odd, Pip thought. Usually he's so miserable.

Neal snorted. "You can talk, you sly fox! All day I've had people asking me what the answer to your wretched riddle is."

Pip looked from the prince's carefully innocent expression to Neal's exasperated face. "Riddle?"

"Roald and Kalasin are playing games with their entourage," Neal explained. "You see, Roald's too polite to whine around you, Pip, but we get to hearing him moaning about how much he hates all those brainless noblewomen that trail around after him, because they hope he'll drop everything and marry them."

"Not a brain cell between them," Merric said in mock-disgust, lifting his flame-red head to grin at Pip. "Noblewomen are all the same."

"Keep your voice down," Roald hissed. "If any of them hear they'll be hurt."

Neal rolled his eyes, looking for a moment exactly like the Lioness in a fit of impatience. "Stop being so nice! If you'd been horrible in the first place, they wouldn't be shadowing you like lost sheep."

"Could this be the reason why you lack admirers?" Pip said dryly, knowing she could tease Neal without him taking offence. "Because your declarations of love run along the lines of 'push off'?"

He scowled.

"Anyway," Merric said brightly, "while we were out on the practice courts, Roald and Princess Kalasin-" His eyes glazed over and he paused. "She is so..."

"Try not to drool on your food," the prince said with uncharacteristic waspishness. Pip hid a grin behind her hand, and wondered if he wasn't quite as meek and sweet as he seemed. For a second, the sapphire eyes met hers and swum with undecipherable emotion. "They're all gaga over her."

Pip patted a dreamy-eyed Merric on the head, and saw the same faintly thoughtful look on the rest of them, their eyes inevitably turning to where Kalasin ate with the other noblewomen, resplendent in gauzes and shimmering silks.

"You men are all the same. One flash of bosom and you can't move for saliva," she muttered.

"It's her mind I'm interested in!" Merric protested in.

Roald gave him a level, sceptical stare. "Merric, who's my sister's favourite author?"

The squire stumbled and stuttered, for all the world like an actor who had forgotten the words, then guessed wildly, "Marco de Marcin?"

Roald shook his head.

"What was she wearing yesterday?" Pip asked innocently, and saw Roald cover his mouth with his hand. They shared a conspiratorial look.

"Pale pink gauzes," Merric said distantly.

"Low cut basque," Neal murmured.

"A skirt slit all the way up her leg..." a pensive Seaver added.

"Too much," Faleron completed.

"Case rested," Roald said. "You're all hopeless, and the rest of us are trying to see through the steam rising off your heads."

Neal shook his head like a dog throwing off water, and blinked a few times. "Anyway, as we were saying, Roald and Ka-the princess came up with this bright idea to make their little pack of hounds leave them alone."

Intriguing... "Oh?"

Her eyes, the pellucid green of the sea-spray in sunlight, slid to Roald and saw the grin edging his mouth. Smile, she urged him silently, we don't see it too often.

"Well," and the smile broke free, sweet and mischievous. "I had the idea. Kally sorted out the details. But it's perfect." Around the table, the boys grinned. "We set them a competition. A riddle - they each get one guess, and until they have made their guess, they're forbidden to talk to us. Whoever guesses correctly first wins a kiss."

Pip put a hand to her forehead and pretended to swoon. "Bliss! Roald, don't tell me they're that eager to swap saliva with you."

"Nicely put," Neal drawled, pulling a gargoyle face. She slapped him lightly. "It worked - no one has been near our dear royals for a good few hours. I haven't been elbowed out of the way by one hulking idiot, or had a single despicably high heel put through my frail feet in the crush. Mind you, none of us can answer the riddle either."

"Well, I'm intrigued!" she said, arching an eyebrow. "Do tell, dear Prince. Let's see what's got them all so flummoxed!"

"It's difficult," the Prince warned. "Kally dug it out of some old scroll. She's been thinking about it for weeks." The smile had become teasing, and she thought how warming it was to see him happy. She had never realised this devilish streak ran through the Prince.

"Well, I'm not after your undying love," Pip informed him breezily, "I'm aiming higher."

"Ouch!" Roald said with a half-laugh. "Going for a god, are you?"

"Merely a god among men," she declared flippantly. Pip had no ambitions as far as love was concerned - love, yes, it was a possibility, but she couldn't stand to swoon over some man when there was so much to learn, so much to see, so much to be!

"Now that you've deflated my ego," he continued, "here's the riddle:

_"Wingless I fly and mindless I seek _

_ I sometimes am true but never can lie _

_ I once had a heart though it never beat _

_ And where I am legion, men often die." _

The thought of men dying was too potent a reminder of the harpy. She blinked away those images, and tried to focus on the words. After twisting and turning the words in her head, she had to concede defeat.

"Not a clue," she said with a little shrug. "Let me mull it over."

"It's a fiend, isn't it?" Seaver agreed. "Even Neal, the brain of our operation, is struck dumb by it."

"Small mercies," Merric put in, wincing as Neal rapped him over the knuckles with his fork.

"Well, if you do figure it out, let one of us know, preferably me," Neal said. "Some of us would put that prize to good use."

"And I wouldn't?" she demanded.

"You just said you're not interested in Roald. And I imagine he isn't too thrilled at the idea of locking lips with the only noblewoman in the place who's capable of knocking him into next week if he doesn't meet your approval."

Roald's eyes met hers, and they seemed a shade darker than usual, as if dipped in shadows. His smile was sweet, and secretive. "Could be," he said softly. "But who says you'd disapprove?"

Her breath caught – and then Neal snorted loudly, and she chided herself for such goose-headed silliness.

And all the while, the riddle echoed in her mind, strangely insistent.

* * *

Night, lying like a carelessly thrown shawl over the land, was her shelter, with the gaps among its weave the bright and icy stars. The village slept uneasily, its people unwilling to have her there, she ignoring and perhaps savouring, just a little, just a jot, their sullen and silent resentment.

Yvenia could not sleep.

The night was the time she loved, the time when she was no longer confined by the harsh truth of the light, when she could ease from shadow to shadow. In the black oil of her eyes the night was enthroned, a secret and lovely mystery that was the only remnant of her annihilated childhood, her mangled past.

In the night, she couldn't see the scars upon her legs; there was no sun to remind her of the fires that had wreathed her and the blank, insipid faces that had watched her burn.

And so she stood, and shook the straw from her hair and clothes. She, the Shang Stormwing, hunger immortal, and they had made her sleep in a barn. How petty people were.

Outside, the houses seemed mere hollow shells, moonlight casting streaks the same impossibly pure silver as her hair across the walls. So beautiful, the night, compared to the day where so much that was ugly happened in the name of war and religion. It was simple: black and silver, a world of lead.

She wandered among the streets, not searching for anything, only enjoying the tranquillity and the peace.

"Are you a ghost?"

The voice startled her - how had someone managed to steal up on her? - before the chiming, high timbre of it fell into her ears, and she had whirled to let her gaze drop.

The child looked a ghost herself in the moonlight, her face a pattern of ebony and ivory, though something about it seemed faintly wrong. There were the indigo concaves of her eyes, and the triangular shadow of her nose but there was a curious, irregular shape upon her cheek that Yvenia couldn't quite make out.

Then she realised it was a bruise, and an anger as brilliant and chill as the stars swelled in her stomach. She had once been a child too, a defenceless creature dragged back and forth by the tides of adult politics.

She had become Shang to save herself, and to save other children. The adults could die, but she would save the children, for who knew what they might be?

"Are you?" the girl repeated, blinking her eyes sleepily. Her feet were bare, daubed with mud that appeared soot-black.

"I..." Then she recovered herself, and recalled who she was. "No, I'm not. What are you doing up, little one?"

"I couldn't sleep. And I ain't that little," the child protested, standing on her tiptoes. "I'm old enough to work."

She arched her thin black eyebrows at the three-foot silhouette, and then hunkered down. "And where do you work?"

The child tucked her hands behind her back. "In the mines. I ferry coal for my Da." The last was said with a touch of pride. "He's the boss here. He mined twenty carts yesterday!" Her voice was hushed and awed. "Ain't no one works like my Da do."

And his child is still scrawny and thin, Yvenia thought. "Is that where you got the bruise?" she asked, reaching out to touch it, but the child flinched back, and stumbled as if she would fall. But before Yvenia could catch her, she steadied herself.

"No," the girl said. The openness in her face made Yvenia wonder if she had ever been that way. That chaste, that untouched. "That were my ma. She gets angry sometimes...she clouts Da too. She don't mean it, Da says she's got a demon in her."

"Demons don't exist," she answered easily. No, the real demons hid beneath human face and form, and behind their power.

Ozorne had been one, and he had been killed before she could reach him. And the man on the other side of that war had opposed him, had slaughtered as many innocents as Ozorne, all in the name of justice and vengeance.

King Jonathon of Conte, she had decided, should die.

"I heard Stacy say you was one," the girl announced.

Yvenia shrugged, and that fall of silver hair rippled like silk caught in a breeze. "They may say what they like. I know what I am."

"What are you?" Raw fascination. "I seen you practising this afternoon. Doing all that fighting. I want to do that!"

"I'm Shang, little one. I was trained to do that when I was your age."

"Could you teach me?" she burst out, pathetically eager.

I travel light, Yvenia wanted to say. No baggage. No attachments. Only myself and my revenge. "Maybe one day."

The girl's eyes were wide under her lank fringe, hair that unsullied pale colour of childhood that soon fades and darkens. "Which one are you?"

"I am Yvenia, the Shang Stormwing," she said proudly, and the words, almost a mantra now, rolled from her tongue.

The girl tilted her head on one side, a scruffy angel in the dimness. "I'm Kyrie," she said. "Do your friends call you Eve? It's such a pretty name."

"No," she answered, startled at the pang the girl's words evoked in her. "I have no friends."

"But that's awful!" the little girl said. "Everyone has friends. Da does, and even Ma-"

The hoofbeats snapped her words into silence. And then the creature burst into the village, and brought lightning and change with her.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Comments would be loved, loved, loved!

Thanks to all the utter angels who commented last time round; thanks to:

the bounteous Briar's Rose: I always thank people :-) I enjoy it. And you guys deserve it. You give up your time for me - you at least deserve a thank-you! Andrea and Ryan are probably going to get another story at some point :-) I'm not done with them! Thanks!

the revered Ra3212: It may take me a while, but I almost never stop a story mid-writing :-) Things just got on top of me for a while, but that should stop now! The Stormwing isn't at all nice, you're right - but she's passed the Ordeal, an she's not broken any laws as such...just bent them till they creaked. Kel..I don't know - it just depends on how the story wants to go (I have no control at all.) Thanks!

the natty Naavi: I'm glad I finally updated :-) Thanks - sorry it took so disgustingly long! This part didn't take too long, I finally have free time again! Thanking thee muchly :-)

the awesome Aquilla: the site is desperately behind on updates ::grimace:: Soon, when the holidays are here! Thanks everso :-)

the amazing Alastriona: evil? Moi? Well - okay, on the updating front, yes, by all means, I should be shot, hung, drawn and quartered ::grimace:: Sorry. Ah, but the cliffhangers - c'mon, you know I have to! I'm like an addict! Happy belated birthday... Thanks!

The lovely Lady: It's been a bit longer than three months for this, hasn't it? If that was losing my touch...I'm clinging on to it for dear life now! I can't focus on TP's very well; I just can't write 'em like she does (let's face it, who could?) - I have finally read Squire, and it was excellent - and I like learning about mine and figuring out what it is they want from life :-) Errr...soon...no - forgiveness, please? Thanks so much!

The resplendent Rogue: Neal is mourning his brothers - you remember it said in PoTS that they were killed in the Immortals war? Though he's also mourning the circumstances (which will be explained during the course of ALS.) I hope you're enjoying (or by now, possibly have enjoyed) Hanging On - it's pretty ragged in places, but I had fun! Pip and Neal - let's just say I'm a sadist ::grins:: Thanks everso!

The quixotic Queen Kat: Thank you, chica. :-) Though it's not true.

The terrific Taynah: hatred is fine with me :-) It's all healthy. Thanks muchly - I'm sorry it's taken so long, things went mad what with applying to uni and trying to keep up with work (I have never been so stressed as this last month or two). Don't thank me for writing them - thank you for reading them.

The jazzy Jinx: I was back, Briefly. And am back, hopefully more permanently. Sorry it took so long!

The superb Stargazer: Thank you muchly :-) I just love writing...it's - an escape, a way out, a way in, a way to relax. I'm just thrilled, and ever-stunned that other people like them. I haven't stopped writing, truly, it's just been a little difficult. Thanks everso!

The queenly Quartz: Chica, I don't think your lateness needs forgiving - I think mine certainly does. Thank you :-) I like the idea of harpies - they're a lot of fun to toy with (blame the Greek Legends.) I'm sure that is not true - you may think it's bad, but I betcha other people won't. I quiver with fear from the all-powerful Qs...maybe it is time to change my name to being with Q :-) Thanks!

the straightforward no one special: Hey, that's fair enough, that's your opinion! I don't mind if people don't like it - I don't write for the reviews, I write because I love to write. But could you be more specific - it'd be much more helpful if you could tell me why you don't like it - otherwise I have nothing to work with / on. You say it's not very well written - in what regard? ie plot, characters, language etc... (and for anyone reading this, this goes for everyone - I love criticism...how else am I going to improve?) Thanks :-)

the gorgeous Grace: Short and sweet - thank you hoards, chica.

The kick-ass Kim: The more took its sweet time - I am so sorry about that, but Ryan will be featuring a lot in the next chapter. Thanks!

The jiggy Jade Dragon's Sister; Sorry about the wait - and thanks for the wake-up call! It's much appreciated!

Kitty-Katt: Thanks J I've done it, look, up, and me getting writing on the next chapter now. I'm aiming for another update same time next week (wish me luck). Thanks!

Cianna: Thanks :-) Much needed motivation there. I've got it going again now - and I have a lot of little things to chase up. I'll try to clear up Past and present - this is all currently past. Thanks!


	6. Chapter Five

Well, look, back to regular posting :-) Things are looking up! Thanks to everyone who reviewed last time round - you are utter angels and my week was muchly brightened by them - I'm knocked out that you've taken the time to share your thoughts. Proper thanks are at the end, though they should really be at the beginning, and I'll probably start putting them there. 

Comments are much adored and treasured - I'd love to know what you think, be it good or bad.

Hope you enjoy!  
Ki

**A Lady's Shield Chapter Five**

A cold mountain, one of many that rise like dark teeth across a jagged skyline. A cold mountain, and at its base a half-concealed entrance where the firebird was born.

She rides back slowly, aching within and without. Fire seems to crown her, a flaming mass of hair leashed tightly into place that seems lit with the life that does not show in her slumped shoulders and bowed head.

Even a Phoenix can burn out, even a Phoenix must return to its nest.

Her thoughts are dreary and dark as the stormclouds that ever hover here in the winter chill, bruises on heaven. The children, she thinks, and closes her eyes against the memory of a clearing surrounded by those gently swinging bodies. Ah, the children - and now more vividly than those pathetic carcasses float the faces of their parents, how hard they clung to one another, how tired and grieved their eyes.

Those children were no firebirds, able to rise from the ashes. They were meat interred in earth, and she cannot help but recall the rows of tiny headstones, and how terribly clear the day had been. They thanked her when she brought justice to them, when she brought them their killer, but they should not have thanked her, for she was too late. Too many lives too late. They expected the legend, and found only the woman.

Her eyes are near closed, and the wind sways her in the saddle. Like every animal, she flees back to the place she considers real when the world asks too much and gives nothing in return.

This is what will heal her - this dank little cave in the mountain, not praises or gifts or the constant need to prove herself.

Her body seems to slide, half-fall from the horse and the last spark leaves the Phoenix - she is only a girl again, a girl starving for something which cannot be created anywhere but the heart.

They come out to greet her, as they always do, their faces smiling but their eyes anxious as she stumbles towards them, and falls into their arms. The Phoenix- full of fire, full of energy...the Phoenix, weeping salt water like all the world.

The Phoenix, home again.

And the hunters, watching, and noticing, and laying their ambush with the greatest of care.

* * *

The unicorn came from nowhere.

The air tore apart before her wild flight. She was an impossible creature that should never have existed in so ordinary a world. Her hooves kicked up sprays of ivory dust, her mane pulled into moonlit tendrils by a wind that could never catch and keep a creature that shimmered like pearly smoke.

Yvenia pulled the child close to her, and slid back into the shadows, half-awed and half-wary. Unicorns did not simply appear in remote mining villages without good reason - or bad reason.

The creature halted, and tilted a long glossy head to the glowing lamp of the moon that hung swollen in the sky. Such elegant, incredible beauty had been carven with divine care and painted with an innocent imagination. Yvenia felt her breath catch beneath her ribs and flutter like a butterfly.

Oh, how beautiful, her heart breathed.

Oh, how valuable, her mind remarked.

And then her ears heard the sounds...faint, far-away, like the voice of a mother she had half-forgotten. They seemed almost soothing at first, the lure of a siren, but as they grew in her ears, she became aware of a jagged undertone, an eerie whistling that felt as though someone ran chips of ice through her blood.

Kyrie clung to Yvenia's waist, and she patted the child's head absently.

"It's so pretty," the girl whispered. Her face was lit by awe, by something that Yvenia would have called rapture and that reminded her chillingly of the white and fanatical look on the faces of those who burned her parents.

"Diamonds are pretty," she murmured, and the small, eager face glanced at her for a moment. "But they cut deep, child. We will watch for now, and see what it is and what it brings."

The unicorn's head swung, gazing behind her. She was listening, the Shang realised, listening to that baneful song that had grown louder and closer.

Then she reared, and silver hooves glittered sharply.

And Yvenia could hear the song more clearly, and it was a melody no longer, but voices howling in one wordless and unrestrained cry. It seemed all about her, riding the wind and calling for blood.

Something was hunting.

The unicorn fell back to earth, her mane foaming curls, glowing in a light from another world.

"Eve," the child said, her voice quivering. "Eve, I'm scared."

I gave up fear long ago, she wanted to say, but felt the lie as chills rippled up her spine.

I gave it up, but it has not given me up.

"Hush," she whispered. "Stay in the shadows, child, and we may be safe. Whatever it is, it is not us it wants."

The immortal had been shifting from hoof to hoof, poised, expectant. Yvenia's heart was pounding against her ribcage like a rabid beast howling to be let free, but she didn't know why.

And then they came.

Shadows, low-slung slinky shadows that revealed only glimpses of needle-sharp teeth, the glimmer of red eyes and the stink of rotting meat. They came from the south, and for scant moments were only blurred and dark shapes that even the moonlight could not brighten. The unicorn was lit by another world - and they, they were shadowed by another.

The unicorn threw back her head and screamed, a terrifying and shrill sound. Here, in the secrecy of the night, she ran free.

And how she ran...

Streaking away from those hunters that Yvenia could see clearly now; massive hounds that were all coarse fur and serrated claws. Her hooves left no imprint, nothing but a sweet summery scent drifting in her wake. Searching, endlessly searching for a way out that did not exist.

Behind her, a hound bayed, and others answered in eerie, wailing chorus.

For all their size, easily twice that of a wolf, they were fast as flitting dragonflies. At last, though Yvenia remembered her knife and drew it from the sheath in her boot, it gave her no comfort.

They seemed to be herding the unicorn, the trio nipping about her with an easy, lithe and dreadful speed. Bellies to the ground, sometimes slinking - then breaking into a run as the unicorn tried to flee through a gap, blocking her escape. Saliva fell to the ground, forming brief and gleaming puddles.

She turned back and forth on her slender legs, uneasy and caged. As she lifted her head, the curving horn flashed like a scimitar in the moonlight, flashed a curious honey-gold.

But they were close - so close, and now Yvenia saw, moving in for the kill, and something in her heart seemed to snap like a violin string.

You can't help, she told herself, You know that. It would be madness - utter madness to think otherwise.

"Eve..." Kyrie stared up at her, mouth trembling. "Eve, they're going to kill her!"

"Yes." The word stung her.

Madness to even think of it - insanity, pure insanity.

This glorious creature would die beneath the jaws of the hounds, rent to shreds because she - she, the Shang Stormwing - had clung to the shadows. She couldn't...she wouldn't let it happen.

"Stay here," she ordered the child.

Madness - but what in her life had ever been rational?

* * *

"Curse it!" Raoul of Goldenlake hurled his gauntlets onto the ground in pure frustration. "Why can these wretched astrologers never get anything right?"

"They trust tea leaves to tell the future," Commander Buri put in dryly, her dark eyes alight with equal irritation, though her mouth had a humorous slant to it. "The only thing tea leaves have ever told me is that I'm about to have a hot drink. Is it any wonder they have trouble deciding if tomorrow will follow today, never mind where the Hunt will arrive?"

The big knight scowled, and turned the map around and around as if it would offer answers. "Once every seventy years," he grumbled. "Once every seventy bloody years, and we've missed it for the third time in a row. Kel?"

Keladry of Mindelan looked up from where she was checking and rechecking the astrologer's disturbingly vague predictions. "Sire?" she said politely.

"Anything new?"

Her hazel eyes were weary, half-squinting in the light of the lantern that hung on a tent-pole. "This village seems right, sir. Mines nearby, directly on a leyline. Close to a keystone." She said it with a sceptical note in her voice; leylines were an astrologer's favourite word, up there with 'energy', 'cosmic' and 'money please', but everyone else insisted they were pure rubbish.

Raoul glared resentfully at the map she had next to the predictions. "When I get hold of Prava Mavres," he said slowly, his eyes narrowing at the thought of the thin, reedy-voiced King's astrologer, "I will personally ram that keystone-"

"M'lord?" A breathless messenger boy ran in, flushed from his run. "The village head wishes to speak with you."

The knight gestured irritably. "Send him in. He's probably wondering why fifty men are camped in his courtyard."

Buri's eyes met Kel's, and the Rider grinned sourly. Over the day of riding, Raoul's dislike of this particular assignment had become quite clear. He had even snapped at Kel, and took every possible opportunity to grumble about the King. The journey had been - interesting. Only Buri didn't seem to mind his smouldering resentment, and gave as good as she got. After receiving a long string of K'Miri epithets, curses and general ill-wishes, Raoul had stopped complaining to her.

The one village woman unfortunate enough to offer to read his palm had run out of the tent with an array of mugs and cutlery thrown after her, and the mere mention of astrology was enough to make Raoul go a remarkable shade of beetroot.

"Lord Raoul?" The man that entered was built like a blacksmith, specks of dirt still clinging to his face. He didn't seem awed by his illustrious company, merely slightly startled. He bowed. "Kursan Morraine. I've been told your company is, ah, borrowing our courtyard."

Through the opening of the tent, Kel could just glimpse the company huddled around fires, and hear laughter and chat. There were several girls hovering at the fringes, she noticed, no doubt wanting to chat to some of the soldiers who lounged so carelessly, exuding confidence and experience. ('First trick every man of the Own learns', Dom had confided with a chuckle earlier.)

"We are." Raoul gestured to the man to sit down. "My apologies for arriving so suddenly, but we departed in much the same way." His smile was strained. Kel had overheard the harsh words exchanged between the King and the knight before they left. "We are searching for a phenomenon - have you ever heard of the Horned Hunt?"

The man blinked, and his gaze flicked about the room as if to ensure that Raoul was serious. "Aye, but...it's just a myth, m'lord. We still tell our children the tale."

"No myth," Raoul informed him. "Or so the King's astrologers believe."

Morraine ran his hands through dark, rumpled hair. "M'lord, I mean no offence - but the Horned Hunt? Hounds that appear from nowhere and take a sacrifice when they cannot catch the unicorn? It's a tale to frighten our children, little more."

"Humour me. Squire, the predictions?"

Kel slid the yellowed parchments across the table to him and the man, and stared at the dog-eared originals in Prava Mavres' scrawling, hoplessly melodramatic script. Raoul had often been heard to comment that Prava Mavres' horoscopes were the greatest works of fiction since Marco de Marcin wrote _The Turning of the Shrew_.

_ ...and on the night of the full moon, they shall come; the child of the stars and the spawn of the shadows. Two and twenty leagues shall she run, and her arrival shall be the lightning strike, her passage the summer's kiss. After her shall come the hounds, numbering three, and permitting no freedom, and their arrival shall breed fear like man has never known, their passage death upon all who them see. _

In the village they shall meet that is the crossroads of the ley and lies in the keystone's shadow, where silver is stolen from the earth and the Stormwing makes her nest; and if the star-child should escape, a mortal shall be made sacrifice - and if she should die, joy shall slip from that place for seven decades.

"...and you did have a problem with Stormwings a while ago, I believe," Raoul finished. "The Wildmage came to bargain with them."

Morraine laughed, but it was a hard and humourless sound. "We've had a Stormwing problem since, m'lord."

"I thought Daine made sure-"

There was genuine agitation in the man's dark eyes now; he cut Raoul off without a thought. "They've not been back, but there's no difference between them and that harridan!"

His voice shook with rage, and Kel glanced at her knight-master to see if she should say or do anything. A fractional shake of his head was his answer. But there was a tight line to Morraine's mouth, and one hand had curled into a fist.

"Who?" Raoul enquired delicately.

The man banged the table with his fist, making Kel jump. "The Shang Stormwing! Turning up here but yesterday and executing one of our men without trial! My own cousin!"

"Was he guilty?" Buri asked, her tones quiet yet somehow none the less dangerous. The K'Miri's eyes were fixed on the man, fingers tapping almost idly on the table.

The man scowled. "The girl was a tease," he said curtly. "All know that."

Yes, Kel translated, but they would have turned a blind eye. Then the thought caught her - the Stormwing...

The same thought has obviously crossed Raoul's mind too, because he stood and leaned forward, his shadow swallowing Morraine, dwarfing him. "Where did she go?"

"She took the road to Greendell," the man said curtly. "May they have much joy of the bitch."

"There are ladies present!" Raoul snapped.

"Where?" Buri and Kel chorused almost automatically, and received Raoul's 'really don't push me' glare that could cook a plucked chicken from twenty paces.

Kel looked down at the spare, slightly ripped map to escape that glower. "Sire?" she said tentatively. "Greendell isn't on the map."

Morraine snorted contemptuously. "Aye well, it's only been there these past ten years. Your mapmakers are all so busy drawing that Carthak place and them Yamani Isles that you miss that." He stabbed a grubby finger at Raoul's copy. "It's there. 'Bout an hour's walk, a half hour's ride."

"Damn!" Raoul muttered. "This place is only on one leyline. That one is where two meet." A heavy sigh. "We've got the wrong one."

"I'd like to see him blame that on the astrologers," Buri said very softly.

The headman's eyes glinted, and there was a distinctly smug curl to his lip. "It's not far," he urged. "Sooner you start, the sooner you'll get there."

Buri's closed expression said clearly that she didn't like Morraine.

"Quite right," Raoul said curtly. He didn't shake Morraine's hand, and an hour later, they were on the road, Peachblossom's hooves clattering on the dusty track.

By the time the village was in sight, the moon above was ripe as a pomegranate, and Kel's back ached from riding all day, bar that brief stop in the village.

By the time Greendell was in sight of the Own with their fifty men and honed weapons, Yvenia had drawn her knife, and stood alone to face fear like man had never known.

The Hunt was on.

* * *

Andrea Kirisra slowed from a run to a walk as she saw the slender form she was looking for, sunk down against a wall with his knees drawn up to his chest, and his head resting on them. He had wrapped his arms about his legs as if he was looking to lock out the world, and perhaps he was.

She didn't say anything, but sat herself down beside him, trying not to shiver with the cold of the wall at her back, and laid a tentative hand on his shoulder.

He threw her off angrily, but didn't look up.

"That was unfair," she began quietly. A laconic shrug was her answer, and Andrea's gold eyes narrowed a little. "Pip's no court girl. She was only trying to help."

Silence, stonier than the bricks behind her. She put a gentle hand on his head, on the wavy hair dark as ink, and this time he didn't move. It was she who broke the contact, uncomfortable with this awful hush.

"But I should apologise."

He looked up then, his grey eyes wide and bemused. Andrea smiled at him, glad of the response, and continued.

"That wasn't very sensitive of me. I'm - used to seeing people die, even if I don't like it."

Her eyes fell shut, and it seemed that she heard her mother's thin fevered wail, and smelt the terrible, cloying reek of her parents' bodies rotting from the inside out. She had buried them with her own hands, her feeble and untrained healing Gift no use against the virulent plague.

"You do get used to it," she continued, unaware of the faint tremor to her voice, or the curious way Ryan watched her. "It's awful to think, but after a while, it can't shock you anymore, and it stops being people dying and starts being - things. Like when you say a word over and over and the sounds lose all meaning. And those men - it was horrible, but maybe I've seen too much death to be touched by it. Maybe I'm cold."

"No," he interrupted, a little roughly but with a certainty that made her eyes fly open. "No lass, ye're not cold. Just - a healer to the bone. An' I ain't." There was turbulence in his face, that wondrously moulded face. "I ain't been helpless in a long time. Not since - not since my Da threw me out."

He touched his jaw, as if it was an old reflex, and must have seen her bafflement because a sour smile twisted his mouth.

"He hated me, see," he explained softly, though she knew that. "Used to beat me black an' blue, an' all the pretty shades of the rainbow. An' that last day, he cut me. Left a scar that used to run here..." The grubby fingers traced a line from his ear down to his jaw. "An Immortal took it away, 'cause I helped her."

No, Andrea wanted to say. She took away what could be seen, that was all.

"It just...scared me. Bein' helpless again. I wanted to help them, Andrea - what's the use of all this magick if we can't do anythin'?" His hands were twisting and untwisting round his knees, and he looked so desperately miserable that for a moment, Andrea couldn't think of any answer.

Finally, she sighed, and toyed with the golden strands of her hair because it meant she wouldn't have to look at Ryan. "I don't know. But I know that magick can't save the world - it didn't save my parents, and it didn't save me from the Arachon, and it barely saved us. All we can do is learn all we can, and try to use it the right way. You can't put the ocean in a glass and you can't save everyone."

"An' that's it?" The faint thrum of anger. He thrust himself up, and stood glaring down at her. "That's all there is?"

She stared up serenely, refusing to show how this strange irrational anger shook her. "It's all I know. You just try all you can. And maybe it'll work. It's the first thing Duke Baird told me, it's the first thing Numair told us. Maybe it's true."

"So you just let people die? An' then ye say, 'Oh well, terrible tragedy, that's seventeen gold nobles, if ye please?'."

Andrea ignored the venom. It wasn't like Ryan - sharp wit, yes. But this curtness...no. "You try, that's all, Ryan. You try."

For a moment, he stayed, glaring down at her. "No. I don't try. I succeed."

He was gone in a blur of fury and disgust, the sound of his footsteps like departing thunder until only the silence was left.

* * *

The Court herald shifted from foot to foot, bored beyond belief. All these long evening meals, and he stood here for hour after hour on the faint chance someone interesting would arrive so he would have the brief thrill of calling their name to the young ingrates and inbreds that made up the Tortallan Court.

It wasn't as if it was even the Court, with its stunning marble steps and long, slow walk to the throne. No. He was made to stand before the dining room.

Idiots, most of them. The younger generation seemed to have no grasp of their elders' social graces. Never a _please_, or a _thank you_, or a _so sorry, was that your foot_. Simply sweeping past in their gowns - every year the same fashion, necklines lower, skirts higher, waists smaller. At this rate, by next year, necklines would end up meeting the rapidly raising skirts, and fashion would be to stroll in wearing a belt.

Still, there was some revenge. Lady Ilse Morraine had been infuriated to be announced as Ill Moron, while Lord Kizarze had been frankly smouldering after an unfortunate insertion of sibilance on the herald's part.

One or two, he liked; Neal of Queenscove never failed to thank him, or ask how his wife was and how the new baby was doing, and the young Prince, well, he'd even been to see Mary and the tyke, and left them a generous casket of food. And that Phillippa ha Minch - a cheeky girl, but she's stoutly defended him after Lady Morraine flounced up threatening to have him fired. In fact, the two had had a brief and memorable conversation:

"You!" Lady Morraine had snapped, fluttering her fan furiously. "How dare you - I expect a full apology and your immediate resignation-"

Lady Phillippa, who had been suggesting middle names for the baby, had turned round and given the lady the full benefit of her blazing green eyes. "We were having a conversation, Ilse. It was a mistake anyone could have made. Do try to open your mind a touch - your earrings will be banging together soon."

The herald grinned at the memory. Aye, she was a firecracker, that one, and bright as magick with it. Of course, he'd heard all sorts about he-

"Do they pay you to stand about and grin like an imbecile all day?" a voice demanded. It was cold, and dark, and oozing an exotic accent.

The herald jumped, wiping the smile at once, and stared at the hooded figure in front of him who had rainwater dripping from his oiled cloak. "Sir?"

"Apparently so," the man continued, and muttered something obviously unflattering in his own language. Carthaki - the herald placed his accent with a shock. "Well, are you planning on announcing me or shall we make small talk for the next five hours?"

"I...I..." Wrong-footed, the herald finally composed himself. "Sir, it's normal to be a little...uh...more presentable before meeting their majesties. Besides, they're eating."

"Excellent!" the stranger said, and the herald thought he glimpsed a tiger's gleaming smile in the shaded hood. "I am ravenous. I am not here to wow that Court with my fashion sense; that, I have heard, is my charge's prerogative."

He sounded - young. His charge? Who on earth could he be supposed to look after?

"But-"

The voice became a fraction cooler, and the herald had the unnerving feeling he was about to be pounced upon. "Now, sir herald, or I may have a spate of spontaneous violence in your vicinity."

Swallowing hard - there wasn't a trace of humour in this stranger's voice - the herald hurled open the doors to the dining room and announced unsteadily,

"Mysterious and threatening stranger!"

The clamour came to a halt, and the man strode in. Gratefully, the herald shut the doors behind him.

* * *

Princess Kalasin stood up straight, lovely and slender as a dew-kissed rose. A collective sigh rose from the male half of the hall, except the Prince, who merely looked exasperated. Pip was tempted to throw a glass of water over Seaver, who looked close to asphyxiation.

"Breathe," she whispered to him, and he started guiltily.

"Who the hell are you?" Kalasin demanded, stepping forwards towards the cloaked man. "How dare you intimidate our servants?"

She made a magnificent sight, Pip had to admit, her sapphire eyes stern and brilliant under the arching brows and framed by the mass of shining black hair. She doubted she could ever look as formidable. You had to be svelte and beautiful to pull it off, and she was neither.

"Who are you to question me?" the man demanded, his Carthaki voice a prowling softness. A surprised whisper scuttled about the room. "Though I hardly need ask - only the Princess Kalasin has such atrocious manners. Where are your parents, girl?"

Pip doubted, from the rage that made Kalasin quite unlovely, anyone had called her that in a long time.

"They do not dine with us," she said tersely. "You may speak with me, and you will be more civil about it. I am royalty!"

"And I'm the son of a blacksmith - what of it? Your blood doesn't give you the right to order me about," the man replied. He threw back the hood of his cloak, and the Princess stared.

Pip stared as well. He wasn't handsome - not in the way the Court admired, but he had hypnotically dark eyes that flashed around the room like a wave of fire, and a sardonic curling mouth that wore a disdainful half-smile, made all the more radiant by his dark golden skin, the colour of heavy caramel.

He was young. Surely not more than late teens, early twenties, and yet there was something in the way he spoke, and his expression that told Pip that young might not mean untried.

"We're in trouble," she heard Roald mutter gloomily, and she followed his eyes to Kalasin; the Princess's mouth was open, and her eyes avid.

"Davir sin Porphyros," he drawled, with just the faintest hint of contempt. "I believe I am your new bodyguard." His eyes swept the Princess. "And if that's what you usually wear, you're going to need me."

A flush crept up the Princess's cheeks. "This is the pinnacle of fashion!"

"In the brothels?" he purred.

From the corner of her eye, Pip could see several ladies pulling their necklines up. Well, how novel. A man who could reverse fashion with three devastating words.

Kalsin stepped forwards, pale hands clenched. "You are not wanted here! Go back to your filthy country!"

Davir's smile widened, as if she amused him terribly, but his voice was barbed as broken glass. "It will be your filthy country, my not-quite lady, when you marry my Emperor."

"I will never marry him!" she declared, and the entire room looked at one another in sheer shock. "Out!"

The Carthaki shrugged his cloak off his shoulders onto the floor. "No."

"_Out!_" she screamed, pointing to the door.

His teeth were bared, but smile or snarl, Pip didn't know, and could only watch with a mixture of awe and pity for the Princess. "Make me."

With a shriek, the Princess picked up a carving knife that someone had left stuck in a roast, and charged at him.

For a moment he stared - purely from disbelief, Pip suspected, for the Princess's gauzes and heels hardly lent themselves to attack - then as she stabbed the knife at him, dodged. As she stumbled past, the Carthaki simply twisted her arm, and the knife clattered to the floor.

The Princess tried to knee him.

He threw her over his shoulder.

Pip looked over at Roald to see he had his face in his hands, and his shoulders were shaking rapidly. The rest of the table was staring open-mouthed - whether at Kalasin's sudden loss of temper, or at the Carthaki's action, she didn't know.

"Attack me again, Kalasin," Davir said flatly, "and I will break whatever is closest to hand."

She sat up, scraping back mussed hair from her eyes, trembling with what seemed like anger. "Princess Kalasin," she spat. "If you think I will be your Empress, you can damn well treat me like it!"

"We are equals," the Carthaki told her, not offering to help her up from where she sat in a sprawled mess of gauzes. "If I am to call you Princess, then you are to call me Kyrios."

"Kyrios?" she snapped, trying to recover her poise. Pip could have told her there was no point.

The smile that blazed on his face was genuine, wondrous and really quite charming. "It means Prince. I am fourth in line to the throne - Kaddar's cousin."

"Oh gods," she heard Roald say. "I don't know which of them to be sorry for."

* * *

Thanks for reading! Comments would be loved, loved, loved!

Thanks to;

The jazzy Jinx: Pip is a lot of fun to write :-) I like writing her more than TPs characters - and this one's her story, definitely. Merci!

The lovely Lady Rose: this is a sequel to an earlier, in which Neal does like Kel (hey, well picked up.) I am going to keep writing this if it kills me! Thanks everso!

The awesome Alex: Everything in this story is sent in the past, about two months before the prologue/ chapter one. Aside from that, the scenes come in the order they are written. Cheers!

The enigmatic : Thank you :-) I just really enjoy writing the story (wish I had more time to write it in) No, I think you do have a right to complain - let's face it, promptness is not my strong point.

The amazing Alastriona: That was pretty atrocious for updates, yes, but I am planning to be more prompt now - all the hassle of university applications, Christmas shows, exams, homework will be gone at the end of next week ::relvied sigh:: and I plan to be doing a lot of writing. Characters have to have motivation - I mean, Yvenia's a 'real' (ie believable I hope) person, and she has real (if not terribly rational) reasons for what she does. ::grins:: The plot starts here. It's going somewhere, I promise - I've just been detached from this story for a while. But the early chapters do have clue as to what's going to happen; the riddle, the harpies, Ryan taking off - all serving a purpose, honestly. Thanks everso :-)

The divine Danel: I am going to keep going...willpower is returning slowly :-) Plus the prospect of holidays makes life seem soooo much brighter! Thanks :-)

The sparky Sandra: Thank you :-) I like creating my own characters - it gives me a bit more control, and 'sides, I can't write TPs.

The rockin' Ra3212: I like my characters to be a little grey :-) It's much more fun than if they're just good or bad. Pip/Roald - mmm, I don't know, I've just found the character of Roald in TP's books quite intriguing; for someone who's going to be King, he's very quiet and I just think there's more to his character than that. I don't think - I've checked Ch 1 which is where the Stormwing appears - that Pip does refer to her as a woman. The prologue and chapter one are present; all else is past, working towards the present. Thanks :-)

The marvellous Minagi: Thank you! It's lovely to know that you like the story - it does not deserve what I have done to it, but I have fun :-) Sure, I'll post it - I'd be honoured. Thanks!

The kick-ass Kitty: Thank you :-) Descriptive writing is my favourite part...I'm finding it more difficult with TPs world (I normally write LJS fiction.) but hopefully it's getting there. I think I'm getting to grips with the characters at last, though none of them will ever do what I want. I'm thrilled you like - thanks everso!

The fabulous Falcon: Writing would be nice as a career :-) But if I ever did try to get published, it would be waaaay in the future, when I'm better at it. I actually started this before I read Squire, so you can imagine my horror when I read it and realised a few things would have to be adjusted-ish. ::grins:: I'm glad you liked Andi and Ryan - they're maturing into people now. I don't know about Daine / Numair because this story isn't really to do with magic, at least not in the early stages. And besides, I think they're best left to TP. Thanks!

The luscious Lady: Alas, it's terrible, isn't it? Us heartless people who are so overcome by life that they lay down their fic. (Which is better than being overcome by your fic and laying down your life.) LOL! I thought this was longer than the last! It's been a while! Ack, are you still going with the story? It doesn't have to be finished for me to beta it! I try not to be predictable - admittedly, it doesn't always work, but it's a learning slide ;-) TCO - I'm on holiday as of Friday, so after that, I'll try to do some more! Thank you muchly - enjoy the hols yourself!

The nirvanic Ninsetta Tristel Sundar: That is an amazing name - how on earth did you come up with it? It's great you like the story (especially after it's been neglected so long, poor thing.) ::smiles:: Well, I like the idea of Pip and Roald...it's a case of if they like the idea. I have no control over my plots. Thanks!

The miraculous Mystic Wolf: I have no idea what will unfold (wait, I do, it's in the first chapter, but I don't know how to get there) beyond about the next couple of parts :-) But it'll be fun getting there! Thank you!

The 'jellical Jaya: (It's a TS Eliot word.) Hey, thanks for reviewing on here too:-) Pip's one of my fave characters in this set - I know where she's going and what she wants from life. Gods, what a nice change! Thank ye muchly!

The kosher Kim: Ikea! Someone who likes cliffhangers::gasp, clutches at heart:: Could it be::beams:: Great! You know my fatal addiction to them. (I am trying to stop - it's just not working.) Look, this one took much less time! Thanks!

The dazzling Diomede: I try not to forget my old characters :-) Just 'cause the story's not about them, they haven't disappeared into the void! I just can't see Kally taking well to being told she has to marry someone, or she has to do this and that. ::grins:: She's a teenage girl, and just wants to have fun, I figure. She's a little like Thayet - after all, Thayet stood up to her father, and set up the Riders. Roald and Pip...mmm...no comment. Merci beaucoup!


	7. Chapter Six

Look at this :-) Another part bang on time. You might start thinking I'm punctual soon. My thanks to the wondrous and wonderful stars of you who reviewed last time round :-) I muchly adored hearing your thoughts, and it lit up my week. Thank you to: 

The lovely LaDee yLdcat: I have fun thinking up lal the twists and turns :-) I have no idea where they come from though! Thank you muchly :-) I'm overjoyed that you like the story!

The jazzy JJJLCC (does that stand for anything?): The spelling looked fine to me! Kally...mmm...a) yeah, it suits the story and b) that gets explained a little later. There's a reason for it, truly! Thanks everso!

The quirky Quartz: Technology can be very evil. I am the death of all things electronic, so I sympathise completely (hotmail hates me with a passion.) ::grins:: I don't mind how long or short the review is - it's quantity, not quality, and it's wonderful of you to review at all. I'll let you get back to ruling the Qs, and being a psychedelic moron :-) Thank ye muchly!

The joyous Jaya: Yup. I figure Kaddar must have had some relations who had a good influence on him. (It was a good influence, honestly!) The reason for Davir's manners - or lack of - is explained this chapter :-) Ta!

The awesome Alastriona: I didn't really intend Davir to turn up in this story, but he decided to stick his head in anyway. Yvenia...mmm...she's an interesting character - I'm not sure what he part to play is yet, but I'm sure it'll become clear. LOL! I;m sorry, I don't intend to do that - it really does just happen. See? Out pretty damn quick :-) And hopefully, it'll continue! Thank you!

The kick-ass Kittykatt: Hopefully Davir will stir things up a little. I have the feeling he's about as friendly as an electrocuted rhino. Thanks!

The divine Diomede: I don't know that he's quite in Blue's league :-) I certainly don't know him as well! Liking is a word... The Stormwing - I think things will shake out a little more clearly next chapter round. I think Kally and Davir will get on like a house on fire (eve been in a burning building?) Thank you hugely!

And my heartfelt thanks to all of you who commented on the song-parody :-) I'm muchly startled and delighted it was liked!

As you can probably tell, comments are utterly adored, pored over, revered, worshipped and generally cherished; I love hearing what you think, be it comment or criticism - it's sweeter than double chocolate gateau.

Hope you enjoy!  
Ki

**A Lady's Shield Chapter Six**

She was away a long time, that spring.

The world was troubled; the Gifted were at their zenith, and strange unruly power rolled through human hearts and human souls. And many of those who had power had restraint with it, and wisdom, and care. But some...there were always some who did not, in whom magick and madness ran together, and so overran all in their path.

There was much for the Phoenix to do when she left the mountains, burning again with a strength that came from the simple support of kith and kin. Cruelty was rife in her ever-changing world; new monsters born with each fool's dreaming, new monsters born in human form and shape.

Her legend resounded through the land that spring. Among the snowdrops, mothers told their children of the Phoenix, who walked through the Scanran Sorcerer's web of enchantment to behead him with a single blow; of the invisible killer revealed under the firebird's purity; of the army that crumbled under her dazzling skill.

And in the mountains, the hunters drew closer, and closer, and laid their trap with the utmost care, waiting until the Phoenix was in the far Yamani Islands, and striking down a tyrant-

And they struck.

* * *

"Stop."

She looked like some figure from legend; slim and tall with her long blade gleaming. Her weight was even on her spread feet; Yvenia was glad now of the thick hide of her boots and warm furs she wore for they might serve as scant armour against those razor claws.

Mithros, Lady, Shurri Shang-Shield, help me now. I am your own; help me against these horrors.

And horrors they were. They had been darting shadows before, but now she saw them clear. Twice the size of a wolf, with thick muscles running under fur that was short and shimmered blackly as poison. Sturdy legs ended in two inches of wickedly honed claw.

But what struck her most was their eyes, a wide bright red, a pair of fresh bloodstains. And horribly, awfully intelligent.

It was as though there were people sat behind those eyes.

"I won't let you," she said, pleased at how strong her voice was. Her stomach was a sphere of ice, her skin chilled. She had long learned to deal with fear, and though this was fear beyond all, fear to break the gods themselves, she fought it fiercely. "You can't have her."

Behind them, the unicorn's head swung to her, and dipped, as if in a bow. So white, white of surrender, white of a shroud.

A low, rumbling growl broke from one creature's throat, and the others took it up.

"Stay back, child," she said to the little girl concealed in the shadows, never turning her head. "Don't move, whatever happens, do you understand?"

Silence, bar the snarl which was growing louder and higher, scraping along her ears.

Yvenia tightened her grip on the knife. The one on the left was closest; that one first, but watch for the one furthest away, her back would be facing that-

"Do you understand?" she snapped.

"Yes," the trembling answer came back.

Her stare was fixed on the hounds, and she had to exert every inch of self-control not to turn and flee. "You shan't have her," she told them, for the first time in many years feeling sweat trickle icily down her back. "Not unless you kill me too."

The snarl broke into a howl, and the closest hound pounced.

* * *

Kel felt goosebumps roll over her skin in wave after wave as the howl sliced through the still air.

"Mithros!" Raoul swore, and urged his horse into a gallop. "Pick up the pace, men, we'll miss this blasted hunt!" His last words weren't meant to be heard, but they flitted back to her all the same. "And his Highness will have my guts for garters, and my stomach for a souvenir."

Peachblossom's hooves pounded on the road, part of the rolling thunder as the Own sped up, sending up trails of dirt that looked like diamond dust in the moonlight.

The howl came again, and Kel shuddered. She'd never heard anything like it, not in all her time on the trail with Raoul, not in wolf-song or eagle-cries. It was unearthly and bloodthirsty and terrible.

She thought she would never experience anything like that short, hurried flight again, the shadows lurking thorny and twisted beneath the trees, and the howl vibrating in her blood and in her bones. She felt as though she rode into the jaws of death, waiting to snap closed over her.

I shouldn't be this afraid, she thought, but saw the same fear frozen on those around her.

I shouldn't be this afraid - but I am.

And then they reached the village, and Kel could scarcely take in what she saw.

The unicorn, with black blood trickling down her heaving sides - rearing, kicking, her horn slashing through the air like a golden scimitar. Her eyes spilled fire, eyes of a falling star, eyes old and cold and secret as the moon; no sound at all escaped her.

A rotting, sickly-sweet scent hit her nostrils, and Kel nearly choked as her stomach churned. She knew their orders were to observe - only to observe - but at the sight of the hounds, dreadful, dark to the unicorn's light, she wanted to hurl herself into that desperate dog-fight and help, despite the rabid terror chattering inside her.

In front of her, she could hear Raoul taking choking, vast breaths, and his head was turned in the direction of the hounds, scant blurs, claws flashing; causing fresh streams of blood to gush down the unicorn's sides.

"Mithros take us all," she heard him say to Buri, who was stroking her trembling mount with an equally shaking hand. "This is their hunt? They expect us to sit and watch this?"

"I'm afraid," she heard the Rider say in a low voice that the men and women behind wouldn't hear. "Gods, Raoul...they're monsters. I feel like I'm facing every Stormwing on earth...I've never felt any fear like this."

"It's magical all right," he agreed. The big knight's shoulders were hunched, and there was no missing the grimness in his voice. "Perhaps we should interfere. You read those predictions - if that creature dies, this place will be cursed."

Buri chuckled shakily. "Flimsy excuse, Goldenlake. We both know you believe in curses like I believe in intelligent recruits."

Raoul shook his head. "I don't like this. I don't like this at all."

Then Kel saw something else. She had missed it before; the unicorn and the hounds would distract anyone - but beside the unicorn, laced with cuts and bruises was something scarcely recognisable as human. Kel felt her eyes widen.

"Sir!" she croaked.

Raoul's face, pallid and taut, turned to her. "Squire?"

"There's a person in there!" she said, gesturing to the figure that stumbled. Her heart leapt. "Sir!"

"That decides it," Raoul growled. Kel didn't know whether to be relived or terrified. "Off the horses, people, we're joining the fun."

"M'lord?" The stout voice was Flyndan's, and though Kel knew he was no coward, she wasn't surprised to see the beads of sweat on his face. Those creatures weren't normal. "Our orders were to observe. The King-"

"There's a person in amongst that mass," the knight snapped back. "I don't like it any more than you, Flyn, but I don't want to stand by and watch that get murdered. The King will no doubt have great fun thinking up a punishment for me. I'm sure there's some spinster he can seat me with at the next banquet."

That raised faint grins as men dragged weapons from saddlebags, and from scabbards. Most had spears; Kel could see why - she wouldn't want those creatures any closer than they had to be.

"Can they be killed?" she heard Buri mutter. "These are no ordinary dogs."

"I don't know," Raoul said tightly. "Let's find out."

He organised the men into groups of four or five and flatly ordered them to stay together. Healers and anyone Gifted were ordered to stay back, and throw what magick they safely could into the fight. Kel was thrust in with Dom; even he had lost his good-humour, and was staring at the scene with wide and dark eyes.

"Go," Raoul snapped, and led his group into the fray.

Kel swallowed hard, and followed.

* * *

Ryan didn't know where he was running. He didn't have anywhere to run to now. Before, there had always been street-haunts, and dark holes to hide in. Now he was stuck in this palace, not street any more, but not noble either. Stuck in between, and no one gave a damn.

He'd never asked to be Gifted - he'd not asked for anything that had happened over the past months, but happen it had, and trapped him here.

He paused, and looked around him. Why had he come here? Here of all places, the shrine of the woman responsible for this.

The Goddess's temple was lovely, a place of light and air, filled with arching windows that let in the bright moon to flush the marble with holy radiance, and turn the silver statue to a mass of blinding light. There were flowers and gifts at her feet, and for a moment he was tempted to kick them to pieces.

"Can ye hear me?" he demanded angrily. "Or are ye off wreckin' lives again?"

"Still rude, I see," a cool voice said, and he spun to see her stood there. A simple woman, with a cascade of dark inky hair swaying about her, and eyes green as luck, green as the grass on a grave. The Goddess raised one slender eyebrow, and her scarlet mouth half-smiled. "You don't change, Ryan Talver."

"Nor do you," he snapped back. "How could you let them men die?"

"I?" She shook her head, and leaned against one of the marble walls. "Men's lives are spun, Ryan Talver. They are spun, and they are measured, and they are cut. We do not decide when or how men die."

She paused, and waved a hand. "Except for the occasional smiting," she added reflectively, "though that does tend to be Mithros. He's so tetchy these days."

"Tetchy?" Fury flared up in Ryan, hot and sharp as boiling water. "You could a' saved them men, you could. Lives are just some game to you, ain't they?"

The Lady shrugged. "So you believe. Child, you're always so angry about the world. It's a great waste. You were not born to throw tantrums."

The grey eyes were doused by the unholy blue fire that flooded his irises. "No? Then why was I born? I ain't done nothin'. I can't do nothin'. I should a' helped them men, an' all I could do was see 'em die!"

A touch of pity came into the cold face. "Ah, child, it's a hard lesson and one your friend knows well. You can't save every man, and you can't save every soul. But has raging and ranting and crying out how unfair it is changed a thing?"

He glared, but the words were a subtle barb. "No," he muttered.

"Has it made you feel any better?" the Lady said.

Ryan shook his head.

"Then perhaps it isn't the solution." She cupped her hands, and blew into them softly. A sparkling mist drifted from her lips, and swelled like an expanding balloon. "You were born for more than anger. There will be little peace in your life, and perhaps in time you will learn to treasure it when it comes. But as you will. You want something you can fight?"

"I don't want to be helpless," he said glumly. "I thought...I thought this Gift would stop that."

"Very well," she said, and threw the hazy sphere into the air. Ryan blinked, and stepped back uneasily as it grew and flattened until it was a screen. "If you want a task, chosen - I will grant you one, though it gives me only sorrow."

Colours began to fill it, like fireworks bursting into fiery bloom. Settling, and clearing, until it was a picture. Ryan didn't know the place; it was as though all the moisture had been long drained from it, leaving a cracked and charred ground littered with craters like giants' footsteps, and stubs of trees. Among the shiny black earth, he caught glimpses of yellow, ivory-smooth chunks that looked like-

"Bones," the Goddess supplied placidly. "It looks like a dragon's crèche, doesn't it?"

The devastation was immense. It stretched for miles; Ryan could see nothing but the scorched terrain, rolling on and on to the horizon. And there - down there were tiny ant-like figures, picking their way through the mess.

"What is it?" he whispered, unable to drag his eyes from the scene.

"The remnants of a war, Ryan Talver. Of a mortal war, when Chaos and Order clashed, and man slew man, and man slew beast, and man slew all that stood in his way."

"The Immortals War?" he asked.

The Goddess shook her head, though he only caught the gesture in the corner of his eye. "No. This was long before your time, Ryan Talver. It had many names, but few history books will ever mention it for it was a war between few people, though many stood by and did naught. It is, I believe, a cause of great shame to those who know. The historians call it the Ashes. The mages call it the Folly. And the common people - when they knew, they called it the War of the Phoenix."

On that magical window to the past, time began to roll back; great gouts of light and fire appeared, and where they flashed, the land became green and fresh again, and he saw glimpses of people - of creatures on that plain.

"It began," she said quietly, "with this."

And Ryan saw the strangest sight; bounding over the ground, moving like a shooting star diving through the heavens, a unicorn. And behind her...four slinking, slithering shapes, quick as nightfall in the desert. And the shadows grew closer and closer to that fleeing, fleeting shape - so close they would merge-

And arrows raced through the air, arrows set alight, arrows glowing with Gifted fires, a horde, a mass that struck the hounds and felled them while the unicorn streaked on through the night.

"What was that?" he breathed, staring as the scene fizzled out, and only the charred land remained.

"They call it the Hunt, child. It comes once in seven decades, and fool men must always try to save the unicorn. Either way, they face grief. The Hunt is an evil revenge, dreamed by an evil man, and like all things Immortal, its price is high. If the unicorn dies, there shall be no joy in that place until the next Hunt, when she is reborn."

Ryan stared at the Goddess's smooth oval face. "An' if she don't?"

"Then an innocent must die. And they will die in the same violence that unicorn would have; perhaps worse. Those creatures take the shape of hounds, but they can be any creature they choose - and tonight, only three of them run."

Her eyes were brilliant as emeralds, and seemed almost sad.

"Where's t'other?" he said, almost afraid to ask.

She gestured to the blackened earth. "Beneath there. The unicorn did not die, but an innocent did, for those men with their arrows caught a hound, and subdued it under reams of spells that killed many promising, if misguided, sorcerers. Magick was so much stronger then, child. They turned that beast against an innocent who sought them for their crimes, and the two fought long and hard; and that innocent died most terribly, though she wounded the hound almost to death. But it has had many long years to heal, and that land has had long years to heal."

Her fingers moved in an odd, complex pattern, and the scene shifted.

Ryan stared. He knew that place. He knew it far, far too well. And he had known that it had only stood for some three hundred years, after earthquakes, and wars, and the whims of various despots. The capital had moved all over the country since Jonathan the First's reign, but...

"Five hundred years wields much change," she murmured, "but the Phoenix's Bane has neither moved nor changed. It will wake soon, child."

His skin seemed to have gone icy cold, and the numbness spread through his bones. "Goddess..." he said.

"I cannot help you against that," she answered sadly. "It is not my creation, and it is beyond my power."

He was looking at the castle.

* * *

Kel was never entirely sure what happened afterwards. She remembered only fearsome moments of that fight; the supernatural swiftness of those hounds, the hot-coal flash of their eyes, the stink of their breath - once, the swipe of their claws across her legs as she stabbed at shadows with her spear, and tried to control the panic raging inside her.

Men fell, and voices cried out in the night; she was knocked to her knees once, and hauled up by a bloody Dom, who had his spear in his left hand because his right hung useless. She remembered the brush of heavy fur on her hand as she thrust her weapon wildly at the gleam of teeth, remembered the clacking sound of jaws snapping.

Vaguely, orders had made their way into her mind, her knight master shouting over the howling and the growling and the shrieks. There had been only confusion and too many shadows; the night had seemed to grow dimmer when the unicorn fled like the crest of a wave soaring out to shore.

Just when Kel thought that she would collapse form sheer exhaustion, the hounds were gone, and only the Own were left.

She stumbled back, limping and wary, but back to find that though too many, far too many were wounded and battered, no one was dead - and that slender, surely foolhardy figure they had risked their lives for was laid on the ground.

"Mithros," Raoul groaned, slick with blood. His armour had been ripped clean through as though it were paper, and there were deep gouges on his arms and legs. "Our healers will be working overtime."

"With all respect, m'lord," one of the nearby men said slightly feverishly from a huddled heap on the ground, "you shouldn't have kept getting in the way of their claws."

There was tired, near-hysterical laughter. It wasn't at all funny, but Kel knew it was some kind of dumb luck they had survived. They had been lucky; lucky there were so many of them, lucky the hounds had spent more time trying to reach the unicorn than attacking them.

"If there's anyone unscathed or Gifted who isn't a healer," Raoul raised his voice, so all of them could hear, "or at least, anyone without any limbs hanging off, some torches would be useful."

"I'll go," Kel said tiredly, standing up and testing her leg. It's only a little blood, she told herself. You've had worse than this. "I'm only a bit scratched."

She heard Dom's snort of disbelief and hissed a soft 'shut up' at him.

It really wasn't too bad, she decided, hobbling off towards the horses which someone with a piece of sense had tied up by the row of shuttered houses . As she passed, she saw people peeping from the doors, people confused and bewildered. And no wonder; who expected this on a night - they must have heard the howling, and the fight...

A noise broke into her ears. A soft, repeated sound that she knew at once. Someone crying.

"Hello?" she said quietly, hand going to the dagger she carried in her belt. "Anyone there?"

There was a scuffling noise, and something - someone crawled out of the shadows. A little girl, sniffling and wiping at her nose with a ragged sleeve. "Where's Eve?" she said, looking up at Kel with scared and wide eyes. "Where'd Eve go?"

"Is Eve your mother?" Kel asked gently.

The child shook her head. "She's a...a Shang-Stormwing. She seen the unicorn and she went to fight." The child burst into noisy tears, and around her, Kel noticed doors swinging open and people stepping out; most of them holding pickaxes, or cleavers, the closest they could get to weapons. "An', an', an'...she didn't come b-back!"

A Shang? Well, that explained the unknown fighter.

"She's all right," Kel told her, starting to crouch down so she was at the child's height, and stopping as her leg screamed in protest. "Just a bit hurt-"

"Kyrie!" A man came running towards them, and swept the child up. "Kyrie, what are you doing out here? Why weren't you in bed?" He was a bear of a man, almost as big as Raoul, but there was only gentleness in the way he held the girl. "I thought you'd stopped sneaking out at night!"

"Sorry Da," the child sniffed. "I just wanted to talk to the Stormwing..."

"Kyrie, I've told you she's dangerous!" he said angrily. "Look what she brought with her, eh?"

Kel felt obliged to defend the unknown Stormwing. "That wasn't her." The man's deep-set eyes turned to her. He couldn't have been much older than forty, but his face was deeply lined.

"And who might you be, m'lady?" he asked courteously, obviously noticing the badge of the Own. "Are you of Fief Goldenlake? You wear their colours." His gaze jumped to her leg, and concern crossed his face. "And you're wounded - we've healers who'll help you. It was you fighting those...things?"

Kel smiled faintly. "It was the King's Own. We've a good many injured, and if you could send healers and some torches to the courtyard, Sir Raoul would be glad of it." She paused. "I'm not of Goldenlake though. I'm his squire."

The man blinked. "You must be the female squire then," he said slowly. There was neither approval nor disapproval in his voice until he shrugged. "Well, good luck to you, m'lady. I'll send over some healers and some food. It's the least we can do."

She thanked him, and returned to the Own for a long night of healing and explanations.

* * *

Morning found Pip loitering in one of the palace practice yards, and warming up her arms and legs with a staff. She kept her mind focused on the moves, whipping the weapon back and forth, behind her, around her sides, under her arms. It was almost a dance, though far deadlier than any made to music.

"You're very good."

The voice snapped her from the pattern, and she stopped, warming pain on her muscles and perspiration gleaming on her forehead. Her breath fogged a little in the crisp morning air; Corus had woken to find a late frost had scattered itself across the lawns.

She met the dark, cool eyes of Davir sin Porphyros, and nodded curtly.

"...for a woman," he added, and the challenge curled like a tiger's tail in that deliciously dark voice.

Pip smiled tightly, more than pain warming her now. "Oh? You're very outspoken - for a dog."

"The noblewoman stings!" he drawled, and whipped off the dark leather gloves he was wearing. "Shall I hurl this in your face and demand satisfaction, lady?"

"If you want satisfaction," she murmured sweetly, slamming the end of the staff into the packed and frozen earth, "you'd best try the court ladies. They're far better versed than I. But if you want a good fight - I'm your woman."

"My lady," he said, and she thought a flicker of humour leapt in his eyes, though it didn't show at all on the proud mouth.

"I'm no lady, Kyrios Davir." Pip lazily pulled a few strays wisps of hair into place, and pretended not to notice his raised eyebrows at the title.

"I take it you saw my arrival yesterday."

Pip laughed, and threw his own words in his face. "We are equals - and if I am to be a lady, you may as well be a knight, though you show little chivalry." Her green eyes danced with devilment. "It's rather refreshing."

"Refreshing?" His teeth gleamed white against the bronze skin. "Not, I believe, how most see it."

"I'm not most. And do you want to fight, Kyrios, or shall we just throw words about?"

"I'd much rather throw you about," he purred, and nodded to the staff. "Weapons? Or hand-to-hand?"

"I didn't know Carthaki nobles fought that way."

His smile became lop-sided. "Emperor Ozorne was not overly fond of my family. He stripped us of our title and hurled us into the gutter. I learned to fight, lady, because I would rather lose my chivalry than my life. Rules can survive being broken. People cannot."

There was a storm simmering low in his voice, and Pip thought she could glimpse threads of lightning streaking through his eyes.

"Luckily," he said, with a one-shouldered shrug, "my cousin managed to miss the streak of raving insanity that Ozorne had in such abundance, and restored the title." His face suggested further questions would not be a good idea.

"Hand-to-hand it is, then," she said.

The Carthaki nodded. He didn't move like anyone she had ever seen - there was a long, slinking grace to his movements, and if he had been a creature, Pip could all too easily see him stalking through a jungle with black fur and a lashing tail. "I will, of course, be stronger. A handicap?"

"We're not playing by chivalry," she told him curtly. "Nearly everyone I fight is going to be stronger."

He held up his hands. "As you will, my lady."

They took up the stance opposite each other, two metres apart; Pip left her hands by her sides, but kept her weight slightly on her front foot, ready to attack, or to duck quickly if she had to. Steady, she told herself, keeping her breathing even as her mind slid into that intense focus she always needed when sparring with the Shang Masters.

Black eyes met green, night clashing with spring, and he moved.

Fast, she thought, blocking the punch with one hand, and sliding her body out of the way of the swift kick that followed. Fast-

He feinted right and she caught the quick upper cut aimed at her, though it threw her back a little. His face was set, grim - as if he weren't fighting her, but some other demon.

Fast and dishonourable.

Good, she decided savagely. She didn't have to go easy on him. Pip stepped back, letting him throw the hard punches and the lightning swift kicks at her. Easy to block, after the longs hours of training, and the long years of stealthily drinking up all things Shang. She held back, testing just how good he was.

Then she stepped into his punch, making sure it slid past her ear and kicked his feet out from under him.

She was startled when the Carthaki caught her wrist on the way down, and threw her. Air rushed past, and she was rolling up on to her feet, a little frost glinting in her hair, turning in time to glimpse the kick flying at her-

(Damn me, her mind whispered, he's been Shang-trained)

And easily throw him past her, using his own momentum to make sure he hit the ground very hard indeed. She followed, and seeing him turning and ready to kick up at her, borrowed a move that was not at all Shang, but pure acrobatics, and jumped into a hand-spring that launched her over the startled Davir, to land gracefully on his other side and easily the deflect the wild punch.

He managed to get up, but Pip knocked him back to his knees, and before he could react, sent her hand slicing down to his neck in a crippling, maybe even killing chop-

She stopped a centimetre short, and met the eyes that held no fear at all, only cold defiance.

I could have killed you then, she thought, as the pair of them stayed frozen, breath fogging on the chilly air, jade and black stares locked and silent. She had to wonder what he saw in her eyes.

Then his teeth bared slowly, a challenge drawing itself up in his expression, and he drawled, "You missed."

Pip gaped at his audacity...then started to laugh. And after a moment, the Carthaki joined in, a low rolling laugh that was as charming as his manner was obnoxious.

"Are you always this arrogant?" she asked, giving him a hand up.

He brushed dirt and frost from his tousled hair, and gave her a bright feral grin. "Of course. I take my words back, my lady - you are good enough to be Shang."

She glanced at the proud face, devoid of anything but that watchful amusement. "So were you?" she said, questioning.

"I was noble," he said mildly. "But my time in the streets was - informative. As long as I kept my mouth shut, no one noticed the accent, or indeed, anything but the dirt." There was a strange look on his face. "I was trained - briefly - by the same master who taught the Stormwing."

"The Stormwing? I've not heard of her."

His expression grew bleak, his eyes colder. "She's more infamous than famous. Not...a compassionate lady, the Stormwing. She was cold as a child, and she's frozen now. Ozorne showed her family not even the shred of mercy he showed mine."

She had no answer to that.

"Tell me, my lady..." he said, leaning on the fence of the court with a small grimace - so that fall had hurt him. "The Princess Kalasin is not what I expected."

She restrained herself from remarking that neither was he, but instead, gave the statement serious consideration. "Did you know she had her heart set on being the first female page?"

He blinked his hooded eyes, though otherwise not a flicker revealed his thoughts. "No, though it doesn't surprise me. She's quite the tigress in those repulsive gauzes. One can only pity the enemy if she laid her hands on some plate armour and a battle-axe."

Pip smiled tightly. "Well, her father talked her out of it. He promised other...concessions. Some choice in her husband, for example." She couldn't help but sympathise with the Princess. She herself had come so close to being thrust into the noble's mould; look pretty, speak elegantly, marry well. "But then his majesty began bargaining with Ozorne, and it turned out Kalasin had no choice at all. And she was forced to watch Roald progressing down the road she had wanted."

Davir was listening attentively, his dark fox-sharp eyes concentrated on her. "She's not even met my Emperor. I'll admit he can be a right royal pain," she grinned at the pun, "but for all that, he's a good friend."

"I think...it's more the idea she hates than the man," Pip said slowly. "She's more like the King than anyone will ever say. And well - there's some who say she's got a streak of Duke Roger's old rebellion in her."

"Ah." The nobleman was silent for a few moments, and she could see him turning what she had said over and over. "There's fire in her soul. We have a word for it - k'shaia. It's the same word as royalty."

"It's certainly fitting," she agreed. "Will the Court be graced with your presence tomorrow, Kyrios Davir? After all, I believe the ball is being held in your...honour."

The long eyelashes drooped to shield his eyes, and she knew he had caught the gentle barb. "Perhaps. If you will agree to grace it too, lady warrior. After all - " His smile flashed. "We outcasts must stick together and you, Lady Phillippa ha Minch, are as improper as I."

She started at her name, but he only chuckled.

"Oh yes...I have heard the whispers about this lovely brazen lady who deplores fools, and therefore the Court. I have heard the whispers of her Shang training, and the strange - yet true, I believe - tale of her riding a hurrok. I have heard much about you, Lady Phillippa. I wonder...how much is true?"

She met his gaze boldly. "Truth is what you make it."

"Sharply said! Well then, shall we make it your presence tomorrow, and the first dance?" He winked, and Pip was startled to realise she liked this curious, outspoken stranger. "After all...that should ruffle a few of those feathers that they pay so much for."

"The first dance," she conceded, "and a rematch in three days time - this time with weapons, Kyrios."

The lean man stood straight, and nodded. "Very well. But I am Davir to you, Lady."

She raised her eyebrows. "Then I'm Pip."

"Pip? A seed, yes?" He threw a last parting shot at her. "And who knows what you will grow to be?"

And she was left on the practice court to wait for the Shang. But his earlier words had put an idea, a curious idea into her head, and they rolled about her mind in soft, insistent echo.

_ As long as I kept my mouth shut, no one noticed the accent, or indeed, anything but the dirt. _

And if I...if I kept my mouth shut, who would know I was noble? she thought Who would know I was anything but a Shang apprentice?

* * *

Comments would be loved, loved, loved!

Comments would be loved, loved, loved!


	8. Chapter Seven

Much love and thanks to the wondrous people of you who commented last time round :-) And this part is even on time! I hope you all had a lovely holiday. My thanks to:  
  
The radiant Ra3212: Davir is an interesting character :-) He wasn't meant to be in this story, but he elbowed his way in. I think he'll be fun. Kel is at this point about sixteen / seventeen. Roald takes his Ordeal in six months - what would that make her? Thank you muchly!  
  
The lovely Larzdinn: Don't apologise! I don't expect reviews, it's an unforeseen gift if you do! ::grins:: I'm muchly elated that you liked! I've finally figured out where it's going, and hopefully will be there very soon. Thanks!  
  
The marvellous Miss Julep: Okay, not exactly quick on the chapter getting-up, but I have been a touch busy this week, what with it being Christmas and all :-) Thanks, I hope you like this part!  
  
The jazzy Jaya: I like writing my own characters much more. I'm not much good with TPs. Davir's fun to write :-) He's got a lot of bite to him. I don't know if Jonathan actually *did* say that...I know he talked Kalasin out of it somehow so I just figured that might be how :-) And I just think he's a little bit sadistic. Thanks everso!  
  
The fabulous FanficFan: I hear and obey! Thanks :-)  
  
The captivating Cynic: ;:smiles:: I know how tired feels believe me. I spent all summer getting up at 5am, and by the end of it, I was something out of Night of the Living Dead. Thanks for reviewing at all :-) AU fic? I prefer writing original characters - I always feel very guilty using TPs. Thank you muchly!  
  
The kick-ass KittyKatt: I rarely have a clue what any of my characters are going to do. They're inconsiderate sods and never tell me :-) Thanks!  
  
As you can probably tell, comments are utterly adored, pored over, revered, worshipped and generally cherished; I love hearing what you think, be it comment or criticism - it's sweeter than double chocolate gateau.   
  
Hope you enjoy! (Apologies for the inevitable typos.)  
Ki  
  
A Lady's Shield Part Seven  
  
Chambers of the Mind  
  
They say the darkness did not end that night.  
  
For three days and three nights, the Phoenix and the Hound fought. The firebird, and the shadowdog, fighting while good men stood by and did nothing. While the skies were seared by a mage's rage as he struggled to escape the bonds that held him, and kept him from his love.  
  
Three days, and three nights, as the clock counts, but by the count of a loving heart, centuries. The common people cowered, and whispered hope to their children, though the children heard only fear. The rich watched, and kept secret their shame. The mighty averted their eyes...  
  
And the Phoenix fell.  
  
Not a mage's rage, or a mage's love could raise her from the ashes. She sank into the longest sleep, and her foe into a deep slumber, but a slumber from which it would one day wake.  
  
They say the mage went mad, and turned the land into a cratered mass, that his tears burned like acid and his voice screamed in thunder.  
  
They say he swore that good men would never stand by and watch evil again.  
  
They say he changed the world...  
  
But maybe what they don't say is more important.  
  
****  
  
Phillippa ha Minch was unusually thoughtful as she made her way through the palace corridors to her Shang lesson. Had Neal of Queenscove been there, he would have warned anyone away at the sight of that hard emerald glimmer eyes, and promptly taken himself to some quiet and safe place.  
  
Her thoughts were swirling like a carousel gone crazy, focused around those hauntingly brief words.  
  
~ As long as I kept my mouth shut, no one noticed the accent, or indeed, anything but the dirt. ~  
  
They banned nobles from Shang. Everyone knew that. The Wildcat had murmured it was something to do with what she had called the War of the Phoenix, and the Horse had just given a shrug of his broad shoulders and remained mysteriously quiet.  
  
But suppose no one *knew* she was a noble. If she hid her face, and said not a word, what would give her away?  
  
Stupid, she told herself with a shake of her head. Just building castles in the sky. All right, perhaps you've had some of the training, and perhaps you love it, but noble is noble. They won't bend the rules for anyone! You'd need the Horse and the Wildcat to agree - they'd have to, they'd know it was you if no one else did - and they wouldn't.  
  
It was when she was passing the Chapel that she saw someone kneeling inside, and stopped dead in her tracks. She recognised the coal-dark head, and the hands on the door that were pale and shaking.  
  
The Chamber of the Ordeal. She'd heard tales to curdle the blood in your veins, and send children shrieking to their mothers. No one had died in many years, but still, Pip knew the tales and had always thought it was a godsforsaken piece of evil.  
  
Pip could never forget of forgive the bruised, terrified eyes of her brother when he crawled out. He'd got to his feet, and he'd smiled at them all with a wondrous pride, but that second when the door had swung noiselessly and he had stumbled out, that second of utter anguish in his eyes....it was burned on her mind. Even now, it brought a shadow across his face, same as it did to her father, and her cousins, and her uncles.  
  
They said the ha Minches had molten iron for blood, and diamond for bones, but the Chamber made even the Ironmen mere flesh and blood. And now - she wondered at the boy kneeling there, head bowed and locked in some dark reverie.  
  
Silent as a cat on a midnight prowl, she slid inside, and tiptoed down between the pews of the Chapel until she was behind the figure. Close enough to hear the gasping breaths he was taking, close enough to note the fine tremors running through his frame.  
  
There was sweat beading the back of the Prince's neck, sending his hair curly at the base, and she could see the tautness in his shoulders. And Pip was grateful she couldn't see his face.  
  
"Roald?" she said softly, but the Prince didn't move.  
  
Ah, that door was only wood and iron, but somehow, it exuded evil. The ultimate judge they called it. Without care, without compassion...but sometimes, Pip thought grimly, a judge needed compassion. Sometimes, crime could be justified. The thief who stole because he would die without food. The woman who killed her husband because he beat her. The man who slaughtered only because he was ordered to.  
  
Evil thing! she thought, and took hold of Roald's arms. His expression was clear to her now, and it was filled with horror. His eyes wide, a turbulent navy wash, and his mouth slack. She tugged.  
  
Nothing. It was as though he was stone.  
  
It was the Chamber doing this, she had no doubt. His Ordeal would be in the Mid-Winter, scarce six months, and perhaps it was giving him an early taste.  
  
"Let go," she hissed at it. "He's not yours yet!"  
  
She pulled at the Prince's hands again, and again nothing happened.  
  
"Let go!" she snapped, and turned to bang her fists on the door-  
  
The world vanished.  
  
****  
  
"Well, you're looking better, Squire," Raoul said with a tired grin as Kel brought some water over. "I suppose you've heard the news?"  
  
Kel nodded, and sat down, suppressing a groan as her over-exerted muscles complained. Everyone was feeling the after-effects on last night's fight, though the village healers had done an amazing job curing the dozens of cuts and gouges. "A section of the mine collapsed. Luckily, no one was inside."  
  
"The headmen is not terribly pleased with us," Buri said dryly. The stocky woman was fletching arrows, and there was a sharpness to her movements that warned Kel she was perhaps not in the best of moods. "In fact, I think the sooner we're gone the better."  
  
Raoul snorted. "Surely he doesn't believe those...astrologers' absurdities?" His black eyes snapped with irritation. "I refuse to believe that letting that unicorn escape means this place will be cursed for the next seventy years. It's coincidence."  
  
Buri raised an eyebrow. "Tell that to him, Sir Commander. From a distance would be best."  
  
"It can't be that bad," Kel protested, glancing over to where a cluster of villagers were evidently discussing the cave-in. "If we've brought such bad luck, why didn't his daughter die? And we rescued the Stormwing, didn't we?"  
  
"Ah yes," Raoul said heavily. "The Stormwing. About as popular here as I'm going to be with the King when we get back. The headmen demanded we take the 'harridan' away with us when we go, and he did hint that the sooner we leave, the happier he'll be."  
  
"And," Buri said darkly, cursing as she snapped an arrow, "he inferred that should any 'innocent' here die, as per the prediction, those pickaxes may not be striking rock. Not a happy man, I think."  
  
She glanced at the faces of the commanders. "I think it's his wife."  
  
Two pairs of dark eyes flicked to her. "Squire?" Raoul asked.  
  
"I've been talking to some of the villagers," she explained, lowering her voice, "and I overheard some of the women talking about her. I get the impression she's...not entirely there. Did you notice the bruises the headmen had, sir? And the child?"  
  
The knight nodded. "I thought they were injuries from the mine." His mouth twisted in a sour smile. "And sometimes it is safer not to ask. We can move out today...except for the Shang girl. Still unconscious, and no wonder."  
  
They had all heard the healer's report; the woman had been stunned that anyone could be alive with such injuries. None especially severe - but so many. The girl had seemed to have a mesh of cuts laid over her skin, and it had taken the healers hours just to clean away all the blood caking her.  
  
"The Riders are all fit to travel," Buri said, glancing over to where the young men and women were joking with the Own. "Nothing worse than scratches, sprains and one broken wrist in Evin Larse's case, though he says he can ride."  
  
"And can he?"   
  
The woman gave her flashing, savage grin. "Evin managed to run away from an enraged husband with a fractured shin. I'd say he'll be all right."  
  
A guffaw escaped Raoul. Evin Larse's exploits were well-known among the military; Kel had heard he was an excellent commander, with just one fatal weakness. Like an Achilles Heel, Neal had once said dryly, only higher up.  
  
"I think it best if we leave," he said thoughtfully. "We're clearly not welcome here, and gods know there's resentment enough against the King and all his minions at the moment - did you hear about that case in Genlith where sixteen commoners were thrown out?"  
  
Buri's lips drew back in something that was not a smile. At that moment, she looked enough like an angry tiger for Kel to pity anyone fool enough to vex her. "I heard."  
  
"And his Highness - as ever - is complaining of our absence." A frown marred the knight's face. "We'd be more use against those Scanran raiders up north, but he wants us back to impress the ambassadors."  
  
"More fripperies," Buri said. The two shared a look of mutual disgust. "I always seem to get cornered by the idiots."  
  
"At least you're small enough to hide," Raoul grumbled. "Short of sitting under the table, I'm stuck."  
  
"And the one time he did that," a passing Dom, his arm bandaged, said cheerfully, "the King decreed that all the tables should be moved to one side to make the dancing space bigger. M'lord had to pretend he'd dropped his plate."  
  
"Though you did drop a glass of red wine on the King, didn't you?" Flyn added with a wry grin. "Told him you were so revolted at the sight of alcohol you just couldn't bear to touch it."  
  
Raoul coughed, and Kel was amused to see him unsuccessfully trying to hide a smug smile. "Well, if he will wear white..."  
  
"Mind you," Flyn growled, his sharp face somewhat agitated, "we spent the next three weeks on the dirtiest jobs his Highness could find. In the fiefs with the most desperate women you've ever seen."  
  
"They were after *me*," the knight said dryly. "They had to be desperate, eh?" he sighed, and glanced around. "All right, Flyn...call a meeting of all the squadron leaders. I'll tell them we can make our way - slowly - back to the palace."  
  
"Pity." Buri had a wistful look on her face as she gazed at the green land, flourishing in the last clutches of summer. The town was small, but prettily built and well-kept; children dodged among the packs and tents of the soldiers. "Now the Yamanis are there, they'll be throwing more balls than a troupe of jugglers. And I'm almost positive Thayet will find me some over-confident idiot to dance with."  
  
"Just tread on their feet," Raoul advised. "That's what I do."  
  
The Rider glanced at him, and her lips quirk. "I'm not quite as heavy as you."  
  
"Wear spurs," the knight said dryly.  
  
****  
  
Blood.  
  
Blood and marble, crimson spilling down the exquisite statues of the throne room, slithering over the floor like flickering vines.   
  
Pip turned around slowly, her heart ducking into her stomach for a frightening moment. She stood, half-hidden behind a pillar. Goddess! What on *earth*...  
  
The King, with his head thrown back, his crown bouncing in a circle of gold down the steps of the throne, an arrow through his heart. And the Queen, her skirts splayed about her in emerald glory, her throat laid bare to a blade's cut.  
  
Goddess...  
  
Nausea churned in Pip's stomach, and she swallowed hard. And looked about the rest of the room, all silent and all still, and all swathed in scarlet like a nightmare brought to life. People she knew, flung back like discarded dolls, pinned by arrows, sliced by weapons, and all so motionless in that horrific hush.  
  
And she heard a soft laugh, and her head snapped to the doors of the hall and the figure that cast a long shadow, framed within them.  
  
He stepped forward with an easy and careless confidence; the stride of an emperor, the stride of a man for whom power was only a weapon, not a responsibility. His face was handsome, and artfully painted with the exotic golds and blacks of Carthak.  
  
She had never met Emperor Ozorne, but she had seen his portrait, and surely this panther of a man could only be he.  
  
He picked up the crown, and threw it up casually. "Born to rule," he mocked coolly, and caught the circlet, his eyes dark and vicious. Not looking at her. No, not looking at her at all.  
  
Pip turned her head to see the boy kneeling at the foot of the throne, his head in his hands, pale as the first snowfall. Then he looked up, his profile visible to her, staring disbelieving at the mess and the man.  
  
"This is what you will bring," Ozorne hissed ferociously. "Failure! A boy who doesn't even know his own heart and yet expects to sway others'? How can you rule? You are not your father! Your choices will be wrong, and you will send them all to their deaths. "  
  
"And you were such a resounding success, I suppose?" Pip heard herself say, as she stepped out of her hiding place. "You're not Ozorne. He's long dead. The Wildmage put paid to him."  
  
"You think evil dies?" The Emperor's gaze fixed her, and in it she saw the gloomy night, the sheen of blood, the reflection of her own fears. "Fool girl. Men are always greedy, men are always weak."  
  
Pip stared, fascinated by the conviction in his - its - voice. "What *are* you?" Then she remembered why she was here - how she had come to be here. "You're the Chamber, aren't you? Somehow. All this is - you. Playing games."  
  
The Emperor threw back his head and laughed. It was an enticing sound, full of velvet darkness. "You think this is a game, mortal girl? Very well, let us talk about *games*. After all, aren't you playing at being Shang? Do you think you are good enough to pass as one of them?"  
  
Pip said nothing, but doubt wavered in her.  
  
"Dreaming your useless dreams," he mocked, and slowly the face was changing and it was no longer Ozorne who stood before her, but the Shang Horse. "You! A noble! Good for nothing, not even good enough to be wed and bred!"  
  
"That's not true!" Roald's defiant voice burst into the silence. He was on his feet, hands clenched by his sides. He glared, and the sapphire eyes were stormy. "You don't know anything! She's better than any of those - idiots out there."  
  
The thing's head snapped so fast it would have broken a mortal's neck. "And you...the weak Prince. Ah, I can see what lies in your heart. And it's what lies on this floor, Prince. All you will bring this realm is blood."  
  
"No!" Roald stepped forward, and though Pip saw his breath hiss in at the sight of his sister, her raven's hair fanned across the floor, he stood firm. "Maybe I'm not my father. But I will never be Ozorne. And maybe I am weak...but no one will know. I will do my duty."  
  
The Horse stared from one to the other, and then it melted, and before them stood a young man with an empty smile and the simple black robe of a mage. Long hair framed a gaunt face; his bones pushed against his skin as though his skeleton yearned to burst free of his flesh. But his eyes burned hellishly, burning with what seemed to Pip like grief, and his mouth was full and shaped for mirth.  
  
"We shall see when you face your Ordeal," he said, and there was a warning in the words. "And you...girl - you are no knight. Why did you seek to wake me? The Shang do not pass my doors."  
  
Pip shook her head. "I...was trying to help my friend."  
  
The man glanced from one to the other. "A royal and a rebel, and both of you seeking to escape. How interesting. You, royal...I have not tested you yet." His eyes, a stunning shade of orange, flicked to Pip. "And you...intriguing, certainly intriguing. There is a hunger in you I have not seen in...many years. I saw it last in my lifetime."  
  
"Did you make this?" Roald asked in his quiet voice. The defiance had died in his eyes, and he was the quiet prince she knew again.   
  
"I created the Chamber, yes. Things were - different then." The man gave a harsh laugh. "Until then, there was no need for a Chamber. But then...the Phoenix waged war, and too many good men forgot chivalry and stood by while she died."  
  
He wasn't so terribly old, Pip thought, surely not more than his early thirties, but heavy lines stretched out from the corners of his eyes.   
  
"You have the same thirst in you," he told her. The grief in his expression flared, sharp as lightning. "Ah, she was beautiful, my Shang Phoenix, beautiful beyond belief."  
  
How sweet of him, Pip thought.  
  
The mage looked at her. "You aren't."  
  
She mustered a smile. "Well, excuse me, but I'm not the one whose spent the last few centuries being a room."  
  
"But...still...there is the same fire in you." His eyelashes drooped. "In the end...it burnt her up. And that last time, she remained ash. I will not judge you either way, girl. I cannot decide your future. But I will warn you - it is a terrible thing, this craving you have, this dream. But to realise it may be more terrible still."  
  
He brought his hands together in a gesture that was almost prayer. "I weary of this. Many ordeals await you - and this, Prince, will no be the worst of them. If you cannot survive the Ordeal without help...you are not fit to rule."  
  
He pulled his hands apart sharply, and Pip found herself leaning on the door of the Chamber, all the strength drained from her limbs. She rested her forehead against the wood for a moment, just a moment.  
  
Behind her, she heard Roald scramble to his feet before gentle hands closed on her waist. "Pip?" His voice was shaky. "Are you all right?"  
  
"Peachy," she muttered, pushing herself away from the door, and stumbling before the Prince steadied her. "Does that happen every time you - touch that thing?"  
  
"The visions...yes," he admitted ruefully, consternation evident on his face. He was avoiding her eyes, and something in the way he said it told her that Roald had been here more than once. "An interview with its creator - no. I didn't even know it was a mage who made it."  
  
"I wonder what he was talking about?" she said thoughtfully. "The Phoenix? I've never heard of a Shang with that name. He was..."  
  
"Mad?" Roald suggested. "Disturbing? Unflattering?"  
  
"Fascinating," Pip said firmly. "Maybe there's something in the library.... I could go and look- my lesson! I'll be late for my lesson!"  
  
The Prince looked at her. "Shang training?"   
  
"Yes..." And she caught her breath, and wondered if he would say anything. The Chamber had seen straight to her heart, and picked at her doubt like opening old wounds. But Davir's words had triggered something in her, and the Chamber had only spoken her deepest desire aloud.  
  
The blue eyes were steadfast on hers. "I hear you beat Kally's bodyguard."  
  
"You hear right."  
  
"Pip..." He shrugged, and flushed slightly. "I've heard the Wildcat say you're good enough to be Shang. But - they don't let nobles in."  
  
"Five hundred years ago," she said in her low clear voice, "women weren't allowed to be Shang. Thirty years ago, women couldn't be knights. Fifteen years ago, commoners couldn't fight. All of those have changed, Roald. Why not this too?"  
  
He looked at her, and something she couldn't decipher at all crept into his eyes. "Why not?" he echoed, and smiled.  
  
She hurried away, her mind made up. She would do it. Tell them today. And as she strode into the room, the two Shang awaiting her, Pip took a deep breath.  
  
"You look a bit flustered," the Wildcat said. "Been fighting Carthaki again?"  
  
The Horse's grin said he approved.  
  
"Yes," Pip said. "And I've got something to tell you."  
  
"Sounds ominous," the woman said, seating herself on the floor.  
  
Her skin had gone cold. "Maybe it is," she said, and then the words fell out in a rush. "I want to be Shang."  
  
****  
  
Comments would be loved, loved, loved! 


	9. Chapter Eight

Oh my god, how long has it been since I've posted anything in this section of the board? Well, first off, let me say - if you can even remember who the hell I am, I will happily fling chocolate and worship at your feet. It has been well over a year since I updated this story for personal reasons. But hey, kinks in the soul all sorted, and I am taking up this story again with a key-bashing vengeance. 

I owe big, big thanks to the people who have relentlessly told me to get my ass into gear with this story - the most excellent Debbi, the fabulous Anne, and the lovely Camilla.

Also, huge, huge thanks to everyone who reviewed this story, oh, a thousand years ago - if any of you are still out there and reading this - whoa, thanks! My most heartfelt and delirious, dippy gratitude can be found at the end of the chapter, and I am pretty damn thankful!

As you can probably tell, comments are hugely adored, pored over, cheered, revered, occasionally feared, venerated, adulated, masticated and laminated - I would absolutely love to hear what you think, please tell me! Criticism (and 'shut the hell up's) are welcomed with open arms and mind. If you want to get hold of me outside of FFN, I can be found lurking at on email and MSN M.

Enough of the hapless babbling - I hope you enjoy!

Much love,

Ki

**A Lady's Shield Chapter Eight**

The Phoenix, deep in the longest sleep of all; a legend lost to the world.

And as the days rolled on, as the shadows stretched far and dark and wide across the world, the legend was forgotten. Truth became hearsay, and hearsay became myth. Myth became fairy tale, until only children knew a fragment of what the Phoenix had once been to a troubled world.

Children – and one man.

They called him mad, empty, a other thousand names that he never heard. In the harsh jagged depths of his grief, he heard only the echoes of her voice. His days were disturbed by the lingering memory of her touch, passed on by the breeze, a stranger brushing past: worst of all, resurrected by his own ceaseless desire.

How her eyes blazed in the feather-edges of his dreams and how bright she burned now her light had been doused. Until the end of his days, he would seek to put right all that had been wrong in a world that had let her die.

He made the Chamber, and one day, walked into it to leave the strength of his soul in it forever, judging and choosing. Its foundations sat strong, upon the grave of the woman he had loved. Upon the prison of the beast that had killed her.

Through all the long years, he shaped and pruned the men who would change the way humankind lived. Rooted low in the Chamber's heart, he tested them, and destroyed those unworthy. He saw the misty coils of the future yet to wind out, and sought to change the horrors in it.

He never dreamed that one day, the Phoenix might rise again, shrieking from the ashes of her last, glorious battle. In his life of wanton tragedy, there was no more room for hope.

And he certainly never dreamed that her murderer might as well.

* * *

Ryan made himself walk quite calmly from the Goddess's temple up to the start of the winding stairwell that led onto the battlements. His heart was pounding madly, an eerie echo of a wardance.

Several of the guards watched him surreptitiously, and took the grim line of the boy's mouth and the distant eyes as outrage at being caught thieving the day before. One or two hefted their weapons, and thought of the companions they had lost to a harpy's brutality. But none dared touch the thief for fear of waking the magick that seemed to ripple so close to the surface nowadays.

"Out of my way, boy!" a voice ordered, and a slender girl elbowed him out of her path. "Wretched peasants-"

"I'm no peasant," Ryan snarled, and caught the girl's arm as she strode past. "An' you ain't got no manners."

Oh hell, he thought as he recognised the lovely face before him, with its wide-set sapphire eyes that glimmered like the sea in summer, and the full if sulky lips, and the gravity-defying clothing.

Her eyebrows snapped together, and raw fury gathered in that fetching face- and faded, replaced by a thoughtful gaze he didn't like at all.

"I know you," Princess Kalasin said. "You're that mage - that boy that Father sent Numair to find. Ryan something."

"Talver," he informed her, then reluctantly tacked on, "your highness."

Well-kept hands were planted on her hips. "I've heard you used to be a thief."

"I did." Ryan watched her carefully; he'd heard the Princess was rather volatile these days. He didn't want to be on the receiving end of a royal's temper. But his tongue, as ever, freed the words before his mind could mention that maybe they weren't such a good idea. "I heard you used to be a lady."

A hand connected with his face and snapped his head sideways.

"How dare you?" she demanded hotly as Ryan rubbed at the stinging heat on his cheek. Gods above, the girl knew how to hit! "Do you know the penalty for insulting me?"

"Are they convictin' honest men-" The thief managed to cut the words off before he really landed himself thigh high in trouble. "Ain't they told you I ain't got no manners either?" he asked dryly. "That's some strength you've got there, your highness. But if ye don't mind, I'm busy now. I've somethin' to see."

"Something to steal, more like," she muttered. A careful, considering look slid onto her face and Ryan didn't like it all. "I could call the guards. You shouldn't even be talking to me."

He gave her a big, false grin and hoped she'd take the hint. Ryan had had to get used to nobles, living in the palace, but for the most part he didn't like them and he certainly didn't trust them. They were tolerable, if only because so many were so slipshod about locking their rooms and concealing their expensive possessions – unbeknownst to many, Ryan was running a small and yet successful enterprise fencing jewellery for various resentful servants – but he liked almost none of them. "I'll stop then."

He gave her a mock bow, flourishing his hands elaborately, and turned to walk away.

"Boy!"

With a groan, he swung back round to find her eyes fixed on him. "Girl!" he said chirpily. "Are ye goin' to hassle me all day?"

She glanced meaningfully at the guards.

"Your highness," he said through gritted teeth. His head was full of the Goddess's words, blinded by the visions he had seen, the ethereal beauty of the unicorn and the charred remains of the war. He tried for politeness, something about as natural to Ryan as pink ringlets. "I do have errands t'run, ye know, without ye botherin' me."

She smoothed back her hair in a motion calculated to entice. It didn't fool the thief; he'd lived for years with Hana Alhaz, a woman both well-versed in and well-endowed with the arts of seduction.

It was a beginner's trick, she'd told him. Draw their attention to your face, to your movement, to the promise of where their hands might be later.

"Most peasants would be honoured to speak with the Crown Princess," she remarked.

Peasant. He'd thought things would be different here, but the world was still chopped in half by a gold-minted line. The rich, and the poor. They lived in their smooth stone castles and elegant houses while people less lucky than him rotted away, husks left to die in the street.

"I'm sure ye'll forgive me if I don't swoon an' grovel," remarked Ryan coldly. "I ain't most peasants. Now if ye'll excuse me, I've got fields to hoe."

Her manner dropped, and she actually reached out to grab his wrist. "Wait. I…"

Her grip was a little too tight to be merely casual. Despite himself, Ryan was beginning to be intrigued. "Princess, do ye want somethin'?"

"A favour," she allowed, releasing him. "That's all."

What could a princess possibly want from him? "Go on," he said warily.

"Not here." A quick, subtle gesture to the guards. "This is strictly...personal."

This is going to get me into trouble, Ryan mentally translated. I shouldn't even be listening to this – I should know better. Don't get messed up with the nobility, they don't understand commoners, they just want to use us. I should just go now.

But somehow, he found himself being guided away from the battlements and downstairs, into one of the wide corridors until the Princess yanked opened a door and unceremoniously thrust him inside it.

It was a closet. Stacks of sheets, pristine and white filled shelves that stretched upwards.

"Uh…" He wavered over whether he should say it or not, and decided that his life was not worth this. "Princess, this is an airing cupboard."

"Bravo," she said tersely. "Now-"

He interrupted, despite the flash of irritation that was familiar as an old friend on her features. "I don't think you understand. If someone walks in, this is goin' to look...bad. I'm not too sure on the rules for consortin' with royalty, but it seems to me that it ain't usually done in cupboards."

A mischievous glitter appeared in her eyes. "More consorting goes on in cupboards than you know, boy, but don't worry."

"If someone finds us," he interrupted anxiously.

"No one will walk in," she proclaimed with utter confidence, and a little flick of her head. "And if they do, worry not, I'll just say you accosted me and they'll cut your head right off before you have a chance to babble."

A pause, and he eyed her deadpan face and then said cautiously. "Were that a joke?"

For a moment, he thought a smile would crack across her face, but she restrained herself, though soft, darting lights leapt in her eyes. So she had a sense of humour. Maybe she was salvageable.

"Didn't they ever teach you to speak properly?" she flicked back, covering that glimpse of humanity with raw scorn.

Too late, though. He saw it was a cover now, and it baffled him utterly – why would she want to pretend to be one of those useless court creatures? All they did was fritter away the time with gossip, and spend money endlessly on whatever fashion rolled through the land. Sometimes it actually pained him to see how they wasted wealth, these people who had so much of it and not for any worthy reason, but simply because they were born to it.

It made him so angry sometimes.

He was not so far from his old life to have forgotten it: the endless nights that tumbled on like windblown leaves, heaping up. The constant hunger, the aches that lay along his bones like pythons, times when the wind ate right into his bones like some great hungry beast and took everything he was away, until he was only a nameless creature lost in cold, cold, c-c-c-cold.

How many bodies had he passed by, skin over starvation, eyes opened because no one cared enough to close them? He'd been too poor, too desperate for his own survival to care.

All for the wrong parents. All for lack of a little coin.

"I speak how I want," he retorted, that old wound of injustice rising again as though the scab had been knocked from it. "Maybe I ain't got your pretty phrasin' and maybe I ain't wearin' silks to drop the jaw and raise the..." He paused, as he caught the warning pursing of her lips and rethought his words. "...blood. But I do somethin' with my life. Can you say that..._Princess_?"

She tipped her head up and lips parting, with a dangerous flash zagging clear across her eyes. Ryan only stared back, refusing to be intimidated, though some part of him chattered that this was madness – this was folly, challenging the child of a king, a girl who could have him killed with a word if so she wished.

And her shoulders sagged.

"No," Kalasin said very quietly. "No, I can't say that at all."

* * *

Beneath the Chamber of the Ordeal, in a room far below the earth and encased in layers of spells and stone, in a tomb made from nothing earthly, buried alive and buried deep...

It stirred.

It felt the life begin to flow sluggishly within its veins. The enchanted darkness had been long and powerful, the inexorable drag of a whirlpool that had kept it sunk in sleep. The weight of all the years had pinned it down and kept it from the hunt.

But now...something had changed. Something had weakened.

Something of the magick that held it under sway had been removed. Only a smallest fraction, but like the flake of snow that begins the avalanche, it was enough.

Oh yes...the Hunt.

It shut its eyes, and breathed in shallowly. In its ears, war tumbled like dice across a wooden floor. The great gamble, the dance between death and glory. It remembered those endless days too well, of struggling with a woman who had met and matched it at every turn with the sleek slide and slice of her limbs, the grace in her feet. It remembered shifting from shape to shape – man to beast to immortal, yet none fit to best the Phoenix.

It had awaited its death eagerly in the end, wishing to be free of its curse. And then treachery had weakened the woman – and she had died beneath its hands, because though it was a monster wishing to be a man, it was still a monster.

Always a monster.

It had slaughtered the woman with eyes of sunlight, half-amazed when the fiery tumble of her hair did not burn it. The triumph had been sweet, but short-lived. It had turned to flee, to return to the place of shadows before the Hunt began again and the unicorn burst forth from the night like a falling star, like a dying wish. To wait for the Hunt, until it could give chase once again.

It had turned – and been caught. By nothing more than one man's magick, but this man had clung with all the fervour and grief in his fractured heart and the monster, already exhausted, could no longer fight.

It had been defeated and forced into the icy grip of sleep near to death. Meant never to wake, held down by the steel justice of a broken man, for centuries it had struggled uselessly against this cruel fate, a hound alone in eternal twilight.

But the magick was weakened...

And it was awake.

It thrust its arms out, and the lid of its tomb flew upwards to crash against the ground and shatter. Out it stepped, a strange shapeless thing that slipped from form to form as if undecided. A hand was human; the head horned, the other arm a tentacle...

It was awake.

And soon it would be free.

* * *

Ryan blinked, startled by the Princess's admission.

"I'm a trophy. All everyone wants me to do is sit around and wait to be married off. I'm just a thing – a little token of my father's alliances."

"From what I hear," he remarked cautiously, "you chose it that way."

She lifted a slender shoulder. "I wanted to be a page. I wanted to be something different – something useful. But darling Daddy thought his little girl might scare off the suitors if she could hold her own with a weapon."

And now, thought Ryan, his little girl scares off suitors with silk and seduction.

"So I thought..." A small sigh, that shivered the silks and made the thief hastily avert his eyes. "If he wanted to be more ladylike – I would. I'd dazzle his whole damn court. I'd make light chatter and jest, and I'd dance, and I'd gossip. And that would be it."

He understood something of why she had done it now, a beautiful sharp revenge. Almost obedience. Almost.

"I even enjoyed it for a while." Her smile was tight and grim, an ugly thing to spoil the splendour of her face. "Oh, it was so satisfying to see Daddy go that fantastic shade of aubergine that means he's somewhere between a stroke and a heart attack. I'd laugh myself sick."

She looked right at him then, and he saw something of what she might have been – a fresh, sweet loveliness that opened up like a blossom in her face. It wasn't as striking as the harsh beauty she had made with cosmetics and clothes, yet Ryan found it more appealing.

"And then I'd cry myself to sleep."

"Look..." He cleared his throat, hoping she wouldn't start crying. He couldn't cope with crying women. "I'm sorry ye're not happy. Well," he added, his suicidal honesty perking up. "I'm not that sorry, 'cause at least ye can be miserable in style, but what's any of this got to do with me?"

A flush climbed her cheeks, rosy as dawn under a rising red sun. "I...need your help."

"Do ye now?" Ryan didn't like the twitch of her fingers, or the rigidity of her stance. It screamed of trouble. "With what?"

"Promise to help me first," she demanded. "Or else I'll let slip just who it is who took Lady Sasura's black opal drops – and all about your little deals with the servants. You should be more careful who you choose to deal with, boy – some of them have more faces than a bagful of dice."

How had she...? Dumbstruck, he gazed at her triumphant face – yet still noticed the beads of sweat at her temples.

"All right," he said glumly. She probably wanted something nicked. Or maybe a magical trick – nobles liked them, though she was supposed to be Gifted herself. "What do you want?"

Her body sagged, as though a huge strain had dissolved from her bones. "Teach me to steal."

Oh, gods.

* * *

Strange place, the Carthaki thought, and trailed his hand idly over the polished stone. Strange, charming place.

He had spent the day wandering it until he had found what he sought. It would have been easier had he a guide, but a guide would never have let him do as he had. Take what he had. He patted his pocket thoughtfully.

This was dangerous. But if what he had been told was correct...it was necessary.

Davir sin Porphyros sighed, and leaned his head against the cool stone for a moment. This palace was sculpted through every inch, a curious mix of practicality and art in its sturdy ramparts and ornate, gilded ballrooms. And utterly alien to him.

His old life had been mud, mostly. Mud. Cold. Poverty. Almost the first thing he remembered was the smooth paste of mud on his fingers as he helped his parents scrabble in the dirt for their belongings. They had been hurled from their home, out into the barren sludge of the Carthaki monsoon. His mother, her silks stained as she searched futilely for her jewellery, lips bleeding from where she had been hit by the soldiers. His father, dragging her from her knees in the mud and trying to comfort her.

Those days had been harsh, one painful lesson after another. He'd been a thief, a liar, even an assassin for a short time - until he was sent to kill a child. He hadn't been able to do it, but the girl with him had, and the terrified blankness in that child's eyes haunted him still, in the iron grip of night.

The Shang Stormwing had lost her mercy before ever he arrived.

He'd learned much from her. But most of all, he had learned to treasure his humanity and keep it burning inside his heart. How hard he had to try sometimes to keep that little fire burning. Sometimes, enraged at the unfairness of his life, he'd wanted to rip and tear at the world.

Yvenia would have welcomed his company. That last time he had seen her was still cut sharp on his memory, fresh and acrid as the smell of paint.

"Turn away then," she'd said in her gravely, arctic voice. The long sheet of silver hair had shone like the blade she held in her hand, idly turning in the light. Above all, he remembered her hair, so feminine and delicate against the severe lines of her face and body. "Don't you want revenge, Davir? Don't you remember how they ripped apart your family and drove your mother to her death? I was there while the breath rattled from her. She had nothing to live for. The Emperor took that all away."

"And the Emperor will die for it," he had flung back. "But not his servants, or his relatives, or anyone you happen to hear mention his name. The man is a tyrant, Eve. He rules with fear, with whips and swords. Of course people bless his name when they speak! They curse it when they pray."

"Fear." She spat on the ground. "That to fear!"

There was ice wrapped around Eve's soul, and always had been. He'd walked away from her and her dream of revenge that day. Yet although he had left behind the black mirrors of her eyes, and that crooked and pitiless smile too, some memory of her always lingered. It was a stark reminder of what he could become if he let the cruelty and the indifference of the world wear him down.

It was what, in a way, had brought him to this door of all others.

He raised his hand and knocked sharply.

There was no answer, and he only sighed. A pity; the one creature he had met in the palace with the gall and the wit to challenge him had vanished like morning mist.

"Are you looking for Pip?"

He turned sharply at the soft voice. There was a girl stood there; a little girl, he thought at first, before he looked more closely and saw it was only the tentative way she held herself. There was the pale glimmer of fear in her eyes, looking ever for the threat. She wore a noble's exquisitely cut clothes, but wore them uneasily, and her words had a Northern twang.

"Indeed," he answered. "I don't believe we have met."

He swept a polished bow, accompanied by what he hoped was a reassuring smile, although Kaddar had told him all his smiles looked like he was two meals away from cannibalism.

"I saw you last night," the girl confided, not returning his smile. "With the Princess. I don't think you're meant to treat royalty that way."

Another royalist. Dear oh dear. "True. I should not have been so gentle."

She stared at him in mute, astonished silence, the fear blooming up in her too-thin face like poison flowers. Blast. He hadn't meant to terrorise her.

Her eyes were a curious colour, the unsullied gold of crocuses. This must be one of the mages he had heard of. One of the servants had told him of the strange pair; the outlandish thief and his shy golden shadow.

"Andrea," he said thoughtfully. "You must be Andrea. Let me reassure you I shall not sling you over my shoulder." And because he couldn't help himself, he lowered his lashes a little to stare smokily at her with the faintest of faint smiles. "Unless that is your...desire."

The girl did smile then, very hesitantly as if she found him odd. "No, thank you. I suppose they've told you about us. Or at least about Ryan."

"Something of it, yes," he agreed, eyeing her. Fearsome. Unnatural. Fierce. Those were the words he had heard murmured, but none of those seemed to suit this butter-soft child. "I was expecting someone..."

"Taller?"

"More monstrous," he said dryly.

"That's Ryan's territory. I'm just here to look after him." Shadows passed across her face like black moths. "He saved me. It's a long story, and you probably don't want to hear about it."

Actually, I think you don't want to tell me, noted Davir silently, but he didn't pry. He had heard the tale, which skated the edges of belief but was, he suspected, mostly true, and he had no urge to hear it again. There were too many wanton tragedies to note every last one.

"Pip's gone to see the Shang Masters, I think," she continued in her chiming voice. "She's...not like the other nobles. They don't like Ryan and I very much."

"I have the feeling they don't like me much either," he said wryly. "Some fool slapped me with a glove today, and actually seemed surprised when I knocked him down."

She seemed to be struggling with laughter. "He was challenging you to a formal duel. It's how they do it here."

Oh. Maybe that was why every other noble suddenly found pressing matters elsewhere when he tried to talk to them. Washing their hair, indeed!

"Are you really the Princess's bodyguard?"

He sighed. The infuriating Princess, who had already managed to elude him this evening. No one had seen her at all. "Unfortunately. I've barely met her – or at least, I've met her in barely anything – and already I wish I'd volunteered for easier duty. Say, testing out the Iron Maiden."

She chuckled, a sound full of surprise, and it sent the light snaking over the fall of golden hair.

"Perhaps you can help me..." He would have preferred the razor company of Phillippa ha Minch but this girl was one of the few people who would pass the time of day with him. "I require the services of a soothsayer – but I have no idea where you keep them stashed."

"A fortune teller?" A frown. She looked him up and down. "You don't seem the superstitious type."

He gave her a tight smile. Not as insipid as she seemed then, but the truth was too risky to reveal. "I like to know what the future holds. It's always best to be prepared."

Yes. He needed to be prepared for what was to come.

Unconsciously, he touched his pocket again, the pocket that held a nail from the door of the Chamber.

* * *

The world dawned in on her slowly, the darkness drawing back like two grey curtains. With awareness came the nudge and nip of pain which quickly solidified into something not far short of agony.

If she'd let herself, she would have cried out.

But she was Yvenia, the Shang Stormwing, and her screams had stopped long ago. Never would the world see her bowed and broken again. Never, never, never...

Her fists clenched, a tiny knot of tightness in her sore body. The memories of that desperate night came back to her – the unicorn, flickering like holy fire in the darkness against the hungry claws and vicious teeth of the hounds.

Had it escaped? She didn't know why it should bother her – why she had even walked into that fight – but she had, and it did.

Yvenia sat bolt upright, ignoring the screams of her muscles. Pain was nothing. It was nothing at all, only a cruel trick of the world to keep her from revenge.

"Who are you?" she demanded loudly.

The healer in the tent, working with a mortar and pestle, yelped at the sight of her. "Lie down at once!" he ordered. "You'll pull out all my stitching."

She growled impatiently and swung her legs from the pallet onto the floor. For a moment, dizzying waves ebbed through her body, but she gritted her teeth and forced them back. Control – there was nothing discipline would not defeat.

The idiot man was actually trying to push her back into the bed.

"Get your hands off me," she snapped and dealt him a glancing blow. She heard something tear, and felt the sutures in her arms snap. The warmth of blood trickled sluggishly down her arm.

He crumpled onto his knees. A glancing blow from Yvenia was like being hit with a sackful of bricks. "Your wounds!" he protested. "My lady Shang, you are not healed-"

"Physician, heal thyself," she advised coolly, and swept – or rather, lurched – from the tent.

* * *

"I'm sorry," said Hakuin, staring at her as if she had just announced her intention to strip and dance a naked mambo. "I think I misheard you. Did you just say you want to be Shang?"

Pip took a deep breath. The two Shang were watching her closely, the Wildcat tapping one hand on her thigh, her grey eyes narrowed. "I did."

"Pip, in a word – no." He shook his head once, as if that was the end of it. "You know Shang doesn't let nobles in. It's against the rules."

"Rules are made to be broken," she retorted stubbornly, panic fluttering in her chest, She had been so sure they would at least consider it.

"So are limbs, if the council finds out," the Horse told her. "I'm sorry, but it's impossible."

The Wildcat spoke for the first time, her face utterly unreadable. "She knows that, Hakuin. Our girl's no fool. Why are you asking, Pip?"

She met the steadfast grey eyes straight on. "Could I be good enough?"

The woman stared back levelly, her hands coiled at her sides. Then her mouth relaxed, and she sighed. "Yes. Yes, you could be."

"Eda!" protested the Horse.

"She's a right to know, Hakuin." The woman pointed a finger at him. "And a right to ask. I remember a young lad who was told 'no' by the Kestrel. Forgive me if I'm wrong, but that boy ran away from home and followed the Kestrel halfway across the country, getting set upon by bandits and beggars until the poor man gave in to stop you being murdered on the road."

A faint flush was streaking up Hakuin's cheeks. He shifted uneasily.

"That was different!"

"How?" There was definite amusement in the Wildcat's gravely voice. "You were good enough too. You didn't take no for an answer."

"I'm common as muck," the man said pointedly. "Nobles can't be Shang – it's our law, simple as that. We live a hard life, a cold life and we can't walk off back to our castles when we get tired of it."

Pip snorted. "Yeah, your life's so hard teaching pages in the morning."

The Wildcat let out a sharp laugh. "True, girl."

"Eda, you cannot be considering this," Hakuin snapped. His plump lips were pursed. "The Shang Circle will be furious!"

The Wildcat's grey eyes narrowed. "Let them be. The girl's good enough, Hakuin, we can both see that. She's been fighting since she was a child and she's a natural. Talk to all the Shang who've passed through the ha Minch lands, and all of them will tell you they were pestered by a green-eyed brat with a passion for fighting. The Ferret would have apprenticed her if she wasn't so conservative – and the Wolf approached her father about it. Why d'you think he left Westos so suddenly?"

"He did?" Pip gazed at her, astounded. "I never knew that."

"You think your father was going to encourage you?" The Wildcat chuckled. "He thought you'd forget. So did most of the Shang. But here you are – and you haven't forgotten a thing, have you?"

"Eda, be reasonable," the Horse said quietly. "Pip can't live our life. What about what her family wants? She'll never make a good marriage if she does this. What husband would want a wife who'll march beside him if he goes to war? What family would run the risk of a marriage where the there's a fair chance their heirs will be left orphans?"

"I think we're past the point where women have nothing better to do than marry," the Wildcat said dryly. "Or would you like to suggest to Squire Keladry that she starts practicing her embroidery?"

"Squire Keladry has the support of her family!" the Horse snapped. "Whose support would Pip have?"

"Mine!" The Wildcat's grin was fierce. "She's learned arts we haven't from the pages and squires, and from that street-lad who's so determined to kick everyone into shape. Do you think she'd ask us if she didn't mean it, Hakuin? Me, I think she has the skill – and I think she has the passion too. Do you think Pip has asked us lightly or thoughtlessly?"

Hakuin's gaze was thoughtful and searching. "No," he said at last. "She's been with us for weeks now. In truth, girl, I'd thought you'd turn up for a week or two then find some excuse. I'm not denying your desire. And I'm not even arguing that you're not good enough," the Yamani said. "I'm arguing that they'll cut our heads off if they find out. I'm arguing that everything in our law and history forbids it."

"Not...everything," the Wildcat said slowly. "Not at all."

Eda Bell was fighting her corner. Pip could only feel relief, and a churning excitement in the pit of her stomach. If they could bring the Horse round – if, if!

"What do you mean?" He frowned, as confused as Pip.

She dragged her hand through the tight silver curls. "It's a little known secret outside the Shang Circle." She coughed delicately. "Unless you happen to be married to one of them, of course."

"What is?" demanded the Horse.

"Shang used to accept nobles."

"It did!" squeaked Pip, thrilled. "When?"

"It was centuries ago. Five hundred years, to be exact, before any of us were even a glint in a courtesan's eye. Until then, nobles were accepted into Shang as readily as commoners. Times were different then, you have to understand. The kingdom was in turmoil – Immortals ran rife, and the Gift was still new and largely unknown. The countries had different names and different borders; two kings were fighting for control of what are now Tortall and Scanra. It was a bitter war that had raged for some fifteen years and they were looking for any edge to win."

"I've never heard any of this," murmured the Horse, his eyes wide.

"There was a lot of support from the nobles for a man called Justinian– he promised tracts of land to his supporters and virtually unquestioned feudal law. He would have made slaves of the commoners without a second thought. His cruelty was notorious, particularly to mages –magic was new and Justinian distrusted it. Even feared it. Most of the common people were behind Faeleon, a Southerner who'd been a fisherman until Justinian ravaged his village and took his wife for a concubine. Faeleon was a cold man – Iceblood, they called him in the Shang scrolls – but he was mercilessly fair. He was a vastly powerful mage, and an excellent tactician."

"Eda," Hakuin said impatiently, "this is all very interesting – but what on earth has it got to do with anything?"

"Youngsters," muttered the woman. "You're all so impatient. Sit down and be silent, lad, or I'll bounce you off the walls until you can't tell up from down."

She sounded as if she meant it. Hakuin sat.

"The Shang were uncertain who to support, and it was becoming clear they would need to make a choice soon. Neither Justinian or Faeleon wanted Shang running loose who might decide to support their enemy. The circle met many times to try and resolve the issue; support was swinging towards Faeleon anyway, though many of the nobles stood for Justinian, when the decision was taken from them."

Pip felt an uneasy flicker in her stomach, It seemed to her almost as if she had heard this story before. In her ears, she thought she heard voices arguing, voices with every accent possible – some rough and ready, some cultured. Some Northern, some Southern, all Shang.

What must it have been like to be Shang then? Balanced on a knife edge, knowing one slip meant blood spilt, scarlet on metal.

"The most powerful Shang at the time, and the most powerful ever, came forward." The Wildcat had a faintly dreamy look in her eyes. Pip had the feeling she at least would have liked to live in those edgy, tumultuous times. "The Phoenix."

"Never heard of her." Hakuin gazed up from where he sat cross-legged, a challenge in the set line of his jaw. "Except...the Kestrel used to call Corus the 'firebird grave'."

Eda nodded. "He was right to. Few have heard of her, but she was a legend in her time, a woman who changed the world in a thousand small ways. She was loved as much as she was hated and utterly fearless. Well, she decided for the circle."

"How?" breathed Pip, fascinated.

The Wildcat smiled winsomely. "She fell in love with Faeleon. And he with her; he issued an edict protecting all the Shang from attack. Of course, Justinian's response was to declare war on them if they didn't support him. And we've never taken kindly to orders. The Shang voted – narrowly - with Faeleon, and the war was stepped up on both sides.

"Justinian was furious. But now it was apparent that Faeleon had a weak point, and it was the Phoenix. Justinian found some of the Shang nobles who were unhappy with the circle's choice. They betrayed the Phoneix - they led her into a trap where Justinian unleashed a monster on her. She died, and Faeleon's heart went from the fight. Justinian took the throne, and the time known as the Age of Shadows began. Shang banned nobles, and sent those who remained into exile. The rest, as they say, is history."

Hakuin let out a low whistle. "So that's why. The circle has held a grudge for five hundred years?"

"That's about the shape of it," confirmed the Wildcat gruffly. "Still think we should keep her out? Myself, I think it's time we gave nobles a chance again. Pip's no traitor; there's no Justinian to steal the throne."

"I don't know..." said the Horse hesitantly. He looked steadily at Pip for a long moment, his face tense and stern. "Is this really what you want, Pip? Are you prepared to give up your life for Shang?"

"Yes," she answered without even thinking. Gods, yes!

"You know she's got the talent," put in Eda Bell helpfully, a little smile quirking up the corners of her mouth. She winked at Pip.

"I know she could be good enough." His black eyes scrutinised her closely. "We just have to make her so good that not even the Circle can refuse her."

Pip couldn't contain the grin that broke over her face. He was agreeing – he really was. She could make something of herself, gods, she'd free herself of this life of idleness and fripperies. She could make a difference.

"If they hear we're training her though..." he continued thoughtfully.

The Wildcat spread her hands, her words edged with wicked delight. "A mask."

"What?" Pip said, startled.

The Horse nodded. "That'll do. Yes – a mysterious apprentice, plucked from the streets of Corus. Horrifically shy – but too talented to ignore. They'll swallow that. And of course, it will work in our favour when it comes to the Ordeal. You have to defeat three of us to be inducted into the Shang Order, Pip. But if you're a noble, none of them will fight you. Your face will give you away for starters, but the mask will solve that. And get rid of that cultured voice."

"Or alternatively," the Wildcat said, prowling round Pip, "you'll have to be mute."

"That would be better," the Horse agreed.

"You'll help me?" Pip said incredulously. It was happening – she could hardly believe it. Oh, she knew there would long months of training ahead, there would be difficulty and days she would detest the ache of muscles and the strain of waiting...but she didn't care.

They looked at each other, then the Horse grinned. "You've potential to be better than both of us," he said decisively. "Maybe even an Immortal. Eda's right; your birth shouldn't keep you out."

Pip shrieked with delight and hugged both of them. The Wildcat looked slightly taken aback – she wasn't one for affection – but there was a pleased smile on her face. "You realise, of course," she remarked dryly, "training's up to eight hours now."

"I don't care!" Pip said joyfully, her eyes sparkling. "I'm going to be Shang!"

* * *

Thanks everso for reading - your thoughts would be loved, loved, loved! 

Most joyous and sincere thanks to the following for their reviews on the last chapter:

The amazing Alastriona: Well, it's been a while :o) Yvenia's a weird character to write - she has the strangest set of morals (curse these uncontrollable fictional characters.)...I think perhaps she's nto as ruthless as she'd like to believe. Roald always seemed to me like a character who could be very interesting (especially considering he's the heir to the throne and all.) but never got the chance. He got sidelined a lot in the PotS series. The whole Chamber-creator idea comes into the story a lot more (now that I come back to the story after embarrassed look a year, I suddenly have this whole big bundle of ideas just itching to be developed. Many thanks!

The glorious Goddessnmb1: 'Lo again! Sorry about the rather late reply :o) Thank you muchly - I have a lot of fun writing, and the words just seem to flow a lot more easily at the moment. Mebbe it's 'cause it's summer again. Davir rates as my fave created character at the moment - evil sds are so fun... Merci beaucoup!

The jiving Jaya: Heyla! Hope you're okay out there in the Southern hemisphere - it's been a while.No, sorry, my writing should have been clearer - the Chamber can mutate to create a person's greatest fear. Roald's is of being a weak king and being destroyed by someone much like Ozorne. The creator was borrowing Ozorne's form before changing to 'himself'. More of Chimera soon - I've got 15 pages-odd of Ch34 done. Thanks!

The superb Stargazer: I left it there rather longer than I intended. I plead a sudden violent intrusion of real life. Huge apologies for the wait... I don't think Kally is that bitter - I tihnk she;s gotten used to playing this callous role and she's forgotten to step out of it occasionally. Have you ever pretended to be mad at someone long after you'd stopped being angry? Anyways, I am truly sorry about the wait - and thank you vastly!

The kick-ass Kim: The Cold Ones - yipers! One day, yeah. At the moment my priorities are: A Lady's Shield, Chimera, Strange Lullaby and then I will think about TCO. I have always said I will never leave a fic unfinished and I intend to stick to that so it will be done eventually. I just am not going to promise any time soon. LOL, this chapter is likely to be cliffhanges 'r us...just to get back into that dang swing! Ta everso!

The rockin' Rose Ai'livahzi: This whole Chamber thing is going to become a big part of the story; the past of the Phoenix and the Chamber is fairly tangled up with what happens and will happen in the 'present'. ::happy sigh:: God, I love figuring out plots. It's so satisfying when it works (and so teeth-gnashing when it doesn't!)

The locquacious Larzdinn: Ack, well I hopwe you are recovered from surgery (let's face it, that ain't ever fun) though I'm sure you are by now. The plethora of character return in this chapter; my fault, when I wrote chapter eight I was under quite tight time constraints (read: exams were battering down the door) so ALS did not get the attention it deserved, and eventually I decided until I could write it decently, I wouldn't write it fullstop. Neal will get a showing next chapter (when I remember where the heck I sent him.), but most of the others characters appear (mental checklist: kally - yes. Andi / Ryan - yes. kally - yes. Davir - yes.). ::grin:: And Happy New Year - 2003! - back! Much adoration!

The kosher Kitty Maxwell: I am glad you like, chica! Would that it hadn't been such a long haul until this one. I promsie sincerely that the next chapter will be out within a month or I grnat my unequivocal permission for anyone who wants to kneecap me. Cheers!

The joyous Miss Julep: Kinda fell down on that whole hurrying thing...dammit! To quote Avril Lavigne; Why'd I have go to and make things so complicated? Thanking you muchly!

The jubilant JadeDragon: Oops...so much for that punctual updating lark :o) I'm thrilled you enjoyed / are enjoying the story though!

The radiant ra3212: Kel would probably be sixteen at a guess then; Roald's definitely eighteen by the time three motnhs has passed. I think Davir is going to stroll into this story, swipe as much plot as he can grab and go kick ass with it. :o) He's a lively character. Huge thanks!

The divine Dianna: Hon, I think I'll manage to forgive you somehow ::grin::Being as how you've reviewed eeeeeverything else, and hey, are a generally fantastic person along with it! Moi, I like the Immortals quartet best out of all the books - if I'd been a bit older hwen I'd writtn them, my fanfis would probably roll around them a bit more. I just the love the mix of myth and relaity that TP gets into her books. They're so colourful.Davir will definitley be seen more of; and he may even ge his own story if he behaves. I'm muy thankful!

The astounding Alex: In anwswer to obth reviews: I am fine - I just had AS Levels, then A-Levels, then pretty muh a total life crisis, then the inevtiable searching the soul and eating of the chocolate, and then going to uni, then the dropping out of uni, then the reapplying and the getting of jobs...so hey, busy-ness all round :o) But I am okay - I'm good, in fact - and thank you everso for asking, and for caring. ::beams::

The luscious LizzieLuLu: The Phoenix parts are kind of a sub-story, telling what happened in the past which relates to the story. (That was a horrible sentence, grammatically.) They kind of foreshadow what will happen within the story :o) They're probably my favourtie bits to write. i don't know why but tragic pasts are always a joy to write... Merci!

The captivating Cass: Thank you! I'm totally pysched that you like(d)!

The delectable Diomede: Oh the irony; now Chimera is regularly updated and ALS lies utterly forgotten in the archives of FFN. On that note - I've got a lot done of Ch 34 of Chimer, and some utterly fabulous people beta reading it for me and generally kicking my ass. I think it was a fear Jonathan had, but it didn't last very long because Jonathan has astounding self-confidence (even arrogance, one might say.) Ta everso!

The splendiferous LadyofShalott: In answer - yes, I will finish it this if it kills me. The break's done me a lot of good actually - I know where this is headed now. ::rubs hands in glee:: So much to do! Character pairings don't have a lot to do with me - they do whatever the hell they want :) But we'll see. Gracias!

The miraculous M'cha: I like creepiness :o) It's interesting to write, it slings some cool plot kinks, and...hey, I'm warped. ::grin:: I leave the romantic twists to themselves. Que sera, sera. But yes, romance will turn up for all theose you mentioned; it's just a case of where, when and with whom. Oooh, do read LJ Smith - she is a fantastic writer and I worship at her feet. I am so sorry about the delay. Things got screwed up IRl and something had to be put on hold for a while. Thank you!

The perfect Piper Peregrine: Yes, there will be more of Kel but not as much as originally planned, as TP has now finished the series nad that kidn of limtis my options on what I can do. Roald ::beams:: No comment, ma chere. Kally - is not as obnoxious as she seems. Don't forget, royalty above all people have to learn to hide their true feelings. Next installment: now - and the one after that, within a month. I am goign to finish this now. Huge thanks!

The magnificent Mystikat: Thank you :o) It has been a while between chapter,s i must confess...but they will be more regular now.

Mysterious and anonymous one: Ka-ching - the Phoenix is someone within the story. Unfortunately, I can't say who but must revert to thew old adage: All Will Be Revealed. Merci beaucoup!

The accomplished Anne McCorvey: Thank you very much :o) I'm honoured that you liked them. I always enjoy what I write - I just wish I'd had a little more time to write them of late! I apologise humbly for the gap between chapters; the chaos of real life intruded, but I am happy to say the world is back on track. I will certainly finish this - I never leave a story unfinished, even if it does take a while! As far as TP fanfic goes, FFN is the only place I post, aside from my personal website. For my other fics - LJ Smith - I post on a couple of mailing lists and sites. Thanks everso! The lovely lady knight: I am all for love and lust, I must say :o) But I like to have some pretence of a plot around it. ::grin:: My view of romance has got slowly more and more skewed. Many thanks!

The heavenly Hoppuschick182: Thanks for letting me know you enjoy the story! It ain't exactly a 'soon' update, but it is an update, and I swear to god the next chapter will be sooner (though let's face it, I've got a lot of time to work with.) Gracias!

The awesome Anonymousy: I will continue this - I never give up on a story, I just had to put this on hold for a while coughyearcough while I handled the mad rush of exams. I'm glad you like the characters ::grin:: They do love smashing up my ideas of plot and keeping me up late frantically typing. Merci beaucoup!

The cracking Camilla: Well, yup, I am still updating this story. I think this is a record gap between postings for me, for which I am truly very sorry, but I am going to finish this if it kills me. Thanks everso!


	10. Chapter Nine

Evening all, and hands up everyone who's surprised this is even updated ::looks at own hand:: Yeah, me too! Well, I am hopefully back into something of a rrrroll with this one, so more regular updates, generally longer chapters and slaving.  
  
Huge, huge thanks to everyone reviewed last time round; you are utter angels, and thoroughly deserve chocolate and fluffy bunny rabbits. As ever, proper thanks are at the end of the story.  
  
I adore hearing what you think; your thoughts are pored over, revered, cheered and occasionally feared, venerated, adulated and assimilated. Criticism is welcomed with open arms and mind, though 'you suck *because*...' is ever a step above 'you suck, die b*&ch die'.  
  
A brief disclaimer: time and place is very confused in this story. When it's done, I'll go back and sort out the kinks. For now, it will have to remain a kinky story. I apologise humbly for this, and can only blame utter stupidity. Or, wait...don't blame it on the plot line, don't blame it on the free time, don't blame it on the craxed mind - blame it on the boogie.  
  
I hope you enjoy, Sugar high Ki  
  
~*~ A Lady's Shield ~*~  
  
Chapter Nine: Tasted of Desire  
  
She shaped the world in fire.  
  
And she was undone by desire.  
  
Love was her weakness, she would think later when she was the Phoenix again, soaring above the world in a trail of lightning and scented smoke. When she was no longer the woman, but the legend. Love was her weakness, and because of it, she was betrayed.  
  
All her life, she dedicated herself to her calling, and gave her life for others, piece by piece. Every wound was a part of her soul doled out in trade for people nameless, faceless, voiceless.  
  
She gave them a name. A face. A voice. All of them hers - she gave them someone to pray to, more tangible than the distant, dreamy gods. More tender than the metal chop of kings and commanders.  
  
The Phoenix was the possession of everyone; their legend, their hope when times were hopeless and life unbearably cruel, their unspoken promise of deliverance. They blessed her name, and never saw the tears she wept sometimes, deep in the shadows of her soul.  
  
She gave up everything to be the Phoenix.  
  
Everything.  
  
The Phoenix was the possession of everyone - and had not a single possession of her own.  
  
Until him.  
  
Until the day when she stumbled upon a lone man, bleeding heavily and almost dead in the slippery sludge of a river bank. Under the willows, where the waters ran slow and the rushes grew thick. He was only a man, with one eye swollen shut, and bruises purpling the length of his body. A fallen king.  
  
She had meant to move on, to sear new paths of light in a murky era, but she stopped for one dying man. She took him to her camp, and tended him there through his feverish spring nights, and the fresh promise of the days. And when he asked her name, she did not speak of the legend, but of the girl who had been born in the mountains, of the truth that had been long banished under the thrill and glory of her myth.  
  
He did not love the legend, but the truth.  
  
Love is weakness, love is wondrous, love is a cross we all bear. It is our holy symbol and holy self; our deepest wish and darkest desire, our phoenix blazing in the cold black night, shining out bright - and doomed to perish.  
  
He loved her, and destroyed them both.  
  
* * * *  
  
"No." Ryan said it flatly, and meant it. "I ain't teachin' you to steal. D'you *know* how much trouble I can get into?"  
  
Princess Kalasin flashed him a confident, cool smile. "You'll be in more trouble when all those nobles find out where their jewellery's been going."  
  
"Blackmail's an ugly phrase," he hinted. "But 'I'll tell your pa' is an uglier one."  
  
She crossed her arms, but not before he'd seen the scuttle of spidery pain through her eyes. "Who will he believe - his own daughter, or some thief?"  
  
She had a point there. Most nobles might be thick as two short planks, but they were also thick as thieves. Ryan had no urge to be seeing the business end of an axe. Still, he wasn't going to give in that easily.  
  
"It's dangerous."  
  
She flicked her fingers. "That's life. I would have thought you, of all people, would have known that."  
  
Ryan gritted his teeth. She had him by the...throat, and she knew it from the little sparkle in the sapphire depths of her eyes.  
  
"It's illegal."  
  
"Didn't seem to bother you."  
  
"It's morally wrong," he tried for desperately, but as his own halo was not so much tarnished as non-existent, that one didn't hold up too well to the princess's single disgusted look. "All right, all right! I'll teach ye- "  
  
Her smile was softer this time. "Good."  
  
"-but ye do what I say, when I say," he finished sharply. "Agreed?"  
  
That famously sulky mouth curled up a tiny bit at his tone, and for a horrible moment, Ryan thought she would refuse. "Very well," she said at last. "If you really feel it necessary. Is it that dangerous?"  
  
Did she live in a castle in the clouds? Disbelieving, Ryan pulled back the sleeves of his shirt to show her the marks that laced his arms. Some thin, some thick, ranging from a clean shiny pink to a poisonous purple, they latticed his arms like a cage of scars. The cage he had lived in all his life, until magic had broken the bars.  
  
"What...?" she breathed. There was horror and shock in her voice, in the way she flinched back. "Who did that?"  
  
He shrugged. "Dunno. Lots of people. These ain't anythin' special. Just got 'em from fights, an' brawls - couple of them were a warnin' when I fleeced someone too important." He looked straight at her. The petal-pale skin was white now, except for two spots of crimson colour on her cheeks. "This is what you're goin' into. I'll do my best to look after ye, but I can't promise to - 'specially not if ye talk to street people the way ye talk to me. Ye'll last ten minutes, and nine of those minutes will be spent flat on your back."  
  
She gawped at him. Probably no one had talked to the Princess that way in years. He could tell she was about to say something cutting, before her gaze flicked once more to the mess of his arms, and she nodded.  
  
"What do I need to do?" she asked.  
  
* * * *  
  
It was a white piece of wood, thin as her fingernails and the same pearly white. A blank screen, with two holes for eyes and rudiments of human features. This was who she would be now, this was what her future was.  
  
Faceless. Voiceless. Nameless.  
  
Not even Shang, but learning. Learning every day, and here was one of the hardest lessons. If she wanted this, it would be secret. It would be silent; there would be no one to share this with, because she would only be a mystery clad in white wood. Her friends could not know; her family certainly could not.  
  
She would have to give up herself for Shang.  
  
"What do you think?" asked the Horse mildly, from where he was warming up with a staff. It spun blindingly fast in his hands, a whir of wood that moved about his body. "You'll find it difficult at first, obviously - it restricts your vision, but bigger gaps might mean someone recognises you."  
  
"We'll work on that, though," put in the Wildcat with a neat, feral grin. The woman was leaning against the wall in her harmless old lady pose, from which she could drive her fist through someone's throat.  
  
Pip turned the mask over in her hands. It wasn't the ornamented craft of the Court masquerades - it was nothing but a slightly shaped piece of wood that was rough to the touch with slapdash paintwork. But that was all it needed to be.  
  
"How will it stay on?" she asked, frowning down at it. There were no strings, nor even any holes for them - it would just fall right off.  
  
"We've had it magicked," confessed the Wildcat with a small flick of her head. The woman had disappeared for an hour or so, and returned with the mask.  
  
Pip knew Eda Bell was wary of the Gift, and knew what a concession it was for the Wildcat. Magic, she had said once, was the poison of Shang. It made the fastest kick, the most powerful punch useless. It denied everything Shang were.  
  
"Thank you," she said softly.  
  
The woman only nodded. "Before you put it on - some rules. While you wear it, you aren't Lady Phillippa ha Minch. You aren't anyone but our mute, reserved student. So when you wear that mask, you don't speak. You don't make a sound, girl. I know it's harsh, but if we're found out...well, let's say I've seen the Shang Circle in full fury, and they could make a flock of angry Stormwings look harmless as a bunch of schoolgirls plaiting each others' hair."  
  
"I take it they wax wroth rather well then," murmured Pip dryly.  
  
Hakuin flicked up a dark eyebrow. "The only thing they wax is the floor, with anyone who displeases them."  
  
"I understand," Pip told them, looking from face to face. "I promise - not a word."  
  
"Shrieks of pain are allowable," the Wildcat threw in. "Even knights squeal like stuck pigs when their elbows are being twisted behind their heads."  
  
"Oh, wonderful," she said under her breath.  
  
And again, she was looking at the mask. It seemed such a small thing to change so much.  
  
Slowly, Pip lifted it to her face, and felt the cool tickle of magick about the lines of her face as the mask settled. The edges of her world curved into darkness; suddenly the Horse was gone from her vision, obliterated by the blinker effect of the mask.  
  
Her back prickled - gods, she was so easy to attack now. Half her vision was gone, and it panicked her. All these last weeks, she had become accustomed to using her peripheral view to see the first signs of an attack. It was like having her thumbs chopped off.  
  
She turned her head to see the Wildcat watching her.  
  
"Unnerving, isn't it?" The Shang straightened, pushing her wiry body away from the wall. "You don't realise how much you rely on sight until you lose it."  
  
"You did something similar once, didn't you, Eda?" commented the Horse. Pip whipped her head round to see him. Even though neither of them had made a move towards her, she felt vulnerable.  
  
"I did," the Shang confirmed. "It was decades ago though, and I don't know how *you* know about it, my lad, because I certainly didn't tell you."  
  
The Horse's cheerful grin beamed out. "Word gets around. Especially word of the Wildcat in orange ruffles."  
  
"It was a disguise," she muttered. "Even wildcats put their claws away to lure in the mice."  
  
Hakuin guffawed. "Say what you like, Eda. I heard what you did to that poor man."  
  
"Enough," the Shang ordered, though Pip was much amused to see her mentor shift uneasily from foot or foot. "If you want to gossip, Shang Horse, put on a dress, flutter a fan and join the Court. We're here to train our student, not discuss my social graces."  
  
He took the sledgehammer hint. "And train her we will."  
  
The staff spun again.  
  
"No more tender treatment," the Yamani said, and there was no smile at on his face. She was so fixed, alarmed at the thought that they considered the last weeks tender, that she never noticed his eyes dart behind her.  
  
But she certainly noticed when the Wildcat kicked her, and she was fighting to stay upright.  
  
Amidst the flurry of blocks and blows, she thought she heard his rueful voice rising over the chaos.  
  
"The real work starts here."  
  
* * * *  
  
"...and this is the Hall of Stars," finished Andrea somewhat weakly, careful to keep well out of Kyrios Davir's reach.  
  
It was a lovely room, a vast circular place that lay open to the blue arch of the sky, cut from silky marbles and gleaming mica. The hallowed silence of a temple filled it, and gazing up at the heavens so serene and so distant, she felt something of just how small and trivial she truly was. She just wished it would affect Davir sin Porphyros that way. And silence him.  
  
"Pretty name," remarked her companion in that lilting accent. "Pretty decorations. Does it serve a purpose, or is it just another sop to your King's ever-expanding ego?"  
  
He was rude. He was *abominably* rude.  
  
"The astrologers watch heaven from here."  
  
A small and assured smile curled across his mouth with a wicked little tilt at the corner of his mouth that only suggested what that stare, dragging over her like the brush of black velvet, demanded. "Only watch?"  
  
"They can hardly go there," she snapped, wishing she had never agreed to help him. Maybe Ryan was right; charity might give you a peaceful glow, but greed would give you peace and quiet.  
  
He gazed up thoughtfully at the sweeping sky. "My dear, if you've never been taken to heaven, I'll happily oblige."  
  
The *cheek* of the man! ""How charming," she said primly, trying not to blush under the feline mockery in his face. He was doing it to embarrass her, she was *sure*. "Any more thinly veiled suggestions you'd like to make?"  
  
Andrea was starting to hate that little knowing arch of his eyebrows. His voice was cool, except for the purr of promise that caught on the ends of every words. "Well, if we speak of thin veils, I certainly have a suggestion for those..."  
  
Equal rage and mortification wrestled in her mind. It was on purpose! The wretched man could see he was making her uncomfortable. "I don't have to listen to this, you know!"  
  
"Had enough pillow talk, have we?" he drawled. "Finally - I thought you'd flirt all day."  
  
Andrea mouthed furiously. And to think she'd thought Ryan was bad - next to Davir, he was saintly as they came. "Don't be so - so disgusting!"  
  
Those shadow-soft eyes swept her from head to foot until she was aware of every mark on her skin, every hair out of place and had to fight an urge to shrink into a corner. He wasn't a handsome man - nothing to the clean chiselled looks of Roald, or Faleron's boy-next-door appeal - but he was arresting.  
  
His face was all feline curves and angles, from the narrow, bladed eyes above the swell of his cheekbones The line of his jaw was utterly stubborn, and his curving smile made midnight promises his stare said he might or might not keep. It was proud face, maybe a cruel face if it hadn't always been lit with his odd sardonic humour that flashed in the lift of an eyebrow, the flick of his fingers, the playful arch of his voice.  
  
And he carried himself with complete confidence.  
  
It was something in the way she moved, Andi thought, that made her afraid to walk too close. The lazy, long steps, his head high and ever studying the world, drinking it in as if it were a fine vintage.  
  
It seemed to her that saunter could just as easily become a strike.  
  
"Disgusting?" he murmured at last. "My apology if I offended you, Andrea. I was only playing. Perhaps Tortallan games are not as - informal as those in the Carthaki court."  
  
"I wouldn't know," she answered quietly. "I'm no noble."  
  
He looked at her, and then laughed, yet gently. She wouldn't have suspected there was anything gentle about him.  
  
"Am I so amusing?"  
  
"Not at all." One shoulder lifted in a half-shrug. "I'm just no palace peacock myself, but I learned their ways fast when my Emperor took me in. I learned - and I lived. Carthak is a dangerous place to be noble at the moment, especially if you are an imperialist. There are many factions who would have my cousin's power for their own."  
  
"You..." She stared at him. But he was so assured. "You're not noble?"  
  
He slanted a conspiratorial glance at her. "I was born noble. The Emperor flung my family to the wolves when my father defied him. I'm just another grubby urchin really. Donations welcome."  
  
"You?"  
  
"Me," he confirmed. "I'm afraid I grew up without any respect for authority. And you are so delightful to tease..."  
  
But he acted so...  
  
Well, she thought, Ryan can be just as churlish and obstinate, and Numair can be more lordly than anyone you'd care to name - and neither of them are noble. "It's just hard to believe."  
  
"It's true." His voice was dispassionate, but something close to fury darted in his eyes. "My mother saw her own daughter hung, and she went to her grave hearing the trapdoor drop, and the rope squeal. My father followed not long after. I was lucky."  
  
Just as quickly, that flicker was gone and his sure smile was gleaming.  
  
"I...I'm sorry."  
  
He gave her a distinct leer. "How sorry?" Under her withering stare, Davir only grinned unrepentantly. "Do calm down, you'll strain something."  
  
"You're straining my patience," she muttered. "Can't you turn it off?"  
  
"Oh, I'd much rather turn you on," he flicked, and held up his hands when she turned on him. "I'll stop. Probably. I have no designs on your body, my dear and deadly mage. Now take me to this astrologer, and we shall say no more about it."  
  
"Promise?" she said suspiciously.  
  
"On my honour. Or possibly something that exists - on my life."  
  
She sighed. Despite herself, she was starting to like him. "Just try to be polite to Prava Mavres. He didn't like *Numair* visiting him, never mind me and Ryan. I don't know how he'll react to you."  
  
The impressive door on the other side of the room was the entrance the Court soothsayer's quarters. It looked like a battering ram wouldn't knock it down, plated with iron and copper runes. Davir gave it a single unmoved look, and then pounded on it with his fist.  
  
* * * *  
  
"What *are* you doing?" The arch of the Stormwing's voice was razor sharp, the high keen of bees in summer swelter. "Little girl, that is not the correct way to punch."  
  
Kel fiercely resisted the urge to belt the woman in the shins. It wasn't nice to beat up the wounded, and besides, the wretched woman would probably just get up and criticise her technique. As she had criticised everyone and everything in the camp, until even the placid Dom was looking distinctly frazzled.  
  
They were camping for a day or two in a sly bid by Raoul and Buri to avoid the trappings of Court life. The horses were tied up, coats gleaming from the not-so-tender ministrations of Leraint who was muttering darkly about some Court girl waiting for him. Fires crackled, sending gouts of smoke up into the blasting blue of the sky, and the smell of cooking meat arose.  
  
"What a pity," Kel answered evenly, bending to pick up her glaive, admiring the brief wheel of sunlight over the blade, "It is how I was taught."  
  
"Then you were taught wrongly."  
  
Kel pressed her lips together tightly, and unleashed a little of her anger into swing of her weapon. "It has served me well enough."  
  
From the corner of her eyes, she saw the woman look down that sharp nose that dominated her face like a beak. "Have you ever faced a Shang-trained warrior, girl?"  
  
Kel stopped short, and slammed the butt of the glaive onto the hard ground. "Stop calling me girl. My name is Keladry. *Squire* Keladry, to be exact." Her voice was polite; she was pleased with that because the Stormwing danced on her nerves like a troop of morris men. "Lady Stormwing, I will glad to listen to your advice, but so far there has been none."  
  
The black eyes glittered like the moon fracturing upon water. How strong that face was, yet sharply lined about her eyes and mouth for all that the woman could not have been older than Dom. "Words will not teach you what a good thrashing will."  
  
"If I want that pleasure, I'll join the flagellants," she replied smoothly, picking up the glaive again to begin the light, even dance that so fascinated the men of the Own. Several had shyly asked where they might find glaives, and a teacher. She hadn't the heart to tell them it was primarily a woman's weapon and the blacksmith back in the palace had several orders placed with him.  
  
She was surprised to see a small smile on the woman's face.  
  
For a while, there was soft silence, the humdrum of the camp fading into the background on Kel's senses until the swish and sweep of the blade was all her world. How she loved the smooth way her muscles moved; not for the little, rhythmic steps of the balls and soirees - here was her dance, cut in steel and stealth.  
  
"I have not seen your weapon before," the woman said at last.  
  
Still standing like a stubborn mule, Kel noted, despite the healer's best flapping and fussing. The Stormwing refused to sit and heal like a good patient; instead, she had pointed out how uneven the stitching was, and how she expected her cast to be a pristine white, not this stained, beaten linen...  
  
"It's from the Yamani Isles."  
  
"I'm sure." The woman stalked forward, ignoring her limp as if it was a brief inconvenience. "I have not been there. I have no wish to meet another tyrannical emperor."  
  
Her voice was harsh, catching on the last word.  
  
Kel slowed, sweat trickling down her back from the gentle exertion. Despite her vow to keep as far away from this icy woman as possible, she was intrigued. Upon learning just who their guest was, Raoul and Buri had both muttered words under their breath that would have shocked a priest, and promptly spent most of their time either out of the camp, conferring in their tents, or training the men well away from the Shang's eye.  
  
"The Yamani Emperor is not a tyrant," she said mildly. "His justice is...ruthless, and he is a man to watch your words around, but he is not Ozorne."  
  
"Ozorne!" The Stormwing spat on the parched ground. "I would dance on his grave, if I knew where it lay. I wish him ten thousand years of screaming agony in the Black God's arms, and my only regret is that another killed him."  
  
Kel was shocked at the outburst. Every line in the Shang's body was taut as straining rope.  
  
"I'm sorry for whatever he did," she said quietly, her hazel eyes a tad baffled by this vicious creature.  
  
"Did?" The strange, silvery hair was flung back like dozens of whips. "He burned my family alive. He would have burned me too, if a Shang had not had more mercy than the people I lived with all my life. They watched me burning, but he alone acted. Your 'sorrow' is nothing to me, little girl - your sorrow will not bring back my parents or my sister, your sorrow is nothing!"  
  
All the same, Kel wanted to say, her heart filled with stinging pity, I am sorry. I am sorry that the Emperor made you so bitter. Had he known his cruelty would live for all these years in you, he would probably have laughed in delight. How sad...how sad that you cannot see how monstrous you have let your grief become.  
  
Yes, the Emperor had a fine revenge when the hatred was born in you. Even now, he touches us.  
  
Maybe she would have said it too, had not the frantic hoofbeats crashed in her ears. Not the sedate trot of scouts returning safe, this was the urgent, uncontrolled gallop of a messenger. Dust lifted, whirled, and choked her vision until it cleared.  
  
Flyn was on his feet; men had stopped their tasks to stare at the white- faced girl who swayed astride her mount. Blood drizzled down from her lips, a slick red trail.  
  
"In the village," she gasped out, her hands trembled violently on the reins. Her horse danced on its feet, colt-skittish. She swayed again, and Kel saw her hands going slack on the rope.  
  
Quickly, the squire moved to grab the reins, a fraction too late as the horse kicked, and the Rider toppled to the earth, a limp pallid huddle. Only now did Kel see the strange weapon that protruded from her back, in the centre of a puckered ring of leather that seemed to be smoking.  
  
Flyn was beside the woman, motioning for the healer to be fetched. He nodded at Kel who at last had the reins secure, and was using all her strength to hold down the nervous horse.  
  
"Anella," he said gently, looking into the Rider's glassy eyes. "Can you hear me?"  
  
"Don't be such an idiot, sir," croaked the woman, more blood spilling from her mouth with each word. Buri came flying out from her tent, papers scattered in her wake. "I'm shot, not deaf. Sir, you have to go to them - Raoul, and half the first...they were ambushed in the village. A mile east. Monsters. I don't know what. Things that spat metal and fire..."  
  
Raoul, thought Kel instantly. The Own and the Riders, trapped! She had to go - but she couldn't let go of the horse in case it began kicking again. What if it trampled Anella?  
  
"Go, Flyn," the rough voice of Commander Buri ordered as she knelt by Anella, stroking the woman's cropped red hair with a steady hand. Her face and words did not match at all; the jollity was forced. "Anella, what did I tell you about fights?"  
  
"Stay out of them, sir." The Rider smiled faintly. "Commander Buri, ma'am, sorry I was stupid enough to...to..."  
  
"Don't worry about it," ordered Buri gruffly, distress plain on her stout face. "You've told us now. You need to rest - that lad of yours is waiting back in Corus, Mithros knows he needs a good woman to keep him on the straight and narrow..." She stepped aside as the healer hurried up, bag full of potions and bandages.  
  
"Here." Kel blinked as the reins were taken by one of the men too injured to fight. He nodded at her grimly. "G'wan, Lady Kel. And give 'em one with that glaive o' yours for me."  
  
By Anella, the healer lifted his hands from her forehead and shook his head. Just once. But it was enough. Buri's fist pounded the ground, furious at losing one of her own.  
  
Peachblossom was whickering, tossing his head as Leraint saddled him. No banter now, only the fast motions they had practiced so often it was automatic - half the Own remained to guard the camp; the other half were ready, weapons bristling.  
  
Riding out to battle again.  
  
The Stormwing watched them with those fathomless black-pooled eyes, the curl of her lip the same still. Affected by nothing. Cold, Kel thought. Don't ever let me get cold like that.  
  
Why did this have to happen? It was all supposed to be so simple. Just follow this Hunt. This cursed Hunt.  
  
Had she thought about those last words a little more carefully, she might have understood some of what was to come. She would have understood - but it would not have eased her pain.  
  
* * * *  
  
Kalasin stepped out. The airing cupboard had provided the right sort of clothes for both of them, though Ryan had hastily demurred at her twinkling offer to turn her back while he changed.  
  
The luxurious black hair had been roughly pulled back into a ponytail, swinging high on her head. From the bumps and strands flying free, Ryan guessed she didn't usually do her own hair. The gauzes were stuffed into one of the many baskets of clothes, replaced by a patched linen tunic that reached to mid thigh and was a touch too big, hiding her figure. The trousers were dark brown, and baggy at the ankles. Gone were the delicate heels, replaced by scruffy boots. A faded cloak hung over it all.  
  
And strange - so strange - she looked more natural in it than ever she had in scraps of silk and gossamer.  
  
Ryan stared.  
  
"What?" She patted her hair nervously, the smug confidence replaced by something much more appealing. "What?"  
  
"Sorry," he drawled with a merry grin. "Wasn't used to seein' ye with your clothes on."  
  
Did women practice that scornful glare? It could have charred bacon. "I see you've already ripped *your* clothes."  
  
He shrugged. "The messier we looks, Sin, the less likely people are to rob us."  
  
"Sin?"  
  
"Ye want me to call ye, Kalasin, fine. But I might as we call ye Princess then - it ain't exactly a common name. And besides....Sin fits ye so well."  
  
He thought that would make her scowl, but instead, the Crown Princess chuckled. He'd made her scrub off all the make-up with a cloth, too, and he'd been surprised how much of the colour of her face was artificial. The petal perfection was gone, replaced by a more golden and uneven complexion.  
  
"We're going now?" she asked as they walked along the corridors. He gestured to her to pull up the cloak's hood. Too many people knew her here.  
  
"Yes..." He eyed her. Could he tell her? No. He didn't want to tell the Crown Princess a monster was buried somewhere under her home. But maybe he could only half-lie. "Princess, have ye ever heard of something called the Folly?"  
  
"Of course - why?"  
  
He held her eyes, like he always did when he told his most convincing lies. "Master Numair's set Andi an' me writin' a paper on it. Well," he added hastily at her raised eyebrow, "I'm readin' and Andi's writin'. I was just wonderin' if ye knew about it. Happened near here somewhere, I heard."  
  
"Did it?" The Princess shrugged, turning her head away from a serving woman who tramped by with sloshing buckets. "I don't know about that, but Numair told us about it once as a fairy tale. He used to do that a lot - little tales about the Gifted with uplifting morals." She pulled a gargoyle face. "All I ever learned was that kissing frogs was more likely to give you a cold than a handsome husband, and to stay well away from spinning wheels."  
  
"What did he say?" he prompted.  
  
"Oh - it was all a long time ago. There was a power struggle between two kings, one Gifted, one not - it went on for years, until no one could really remember what it all started over. Until the unGifted king trapped the mage's lover and killed her. The mage went mad, and..." She fell silent as they passed by a butler, casually flirting with one of the maids. "Well!"  
  
"Oh, ol' Murdock'll chase anythin' in a skirt," Ryan said casually. "Had a horrible mistaken encounter with Maren highlanders, I hear - their light infantry wears kilts."  
  
Both paused at the thought of the elderly butler courting the fiery highland troops.  
  
Both shuddered.  
  
"Anyway," he continued. "What were ye sayin'?"  
  
"And he burned the world," said Kalasin very quietly. Instinctively, she drew the cloak closer about her. "Numair said it burned for seven days and seven nights - he made the earth one huge funeral pyre, blazing out so high that the night became day. And all that time, he sat before it and stared into it, as though he was waiting for something. He burned the world, and burned with it."  
  
"Nice inspirin' tale there then," muttered Ryan. "What's the moral - don't forget your marshmallows?"  
  
"Probably great magic brings great responsibility." Kalasin shrugged, and cocked her head. "It was always hard to tell with Numair - he got very confused about fairy tales. He's the only person I ever knew who told the story of the princess who ate the poisoned pea which meant she turned into a swan every night until someone plucked off her feathers to make forty mattresses."  
  
The Folly. A mage who burned the world? And the thing - the monster under the castle. But *where* under it?  
  
Ryan sighed heavily. He was clueless.  
  
Maybe someone one the street would know more. People there had long memories - particularly for grudges. And it seemed to him there'd be a lot of grudges for a man who set the world alight, all for a lost lady love.  
  
"C'mon, lass," he said, trotting down a flight of back stairs. "Let's take ye to meet the streets. Try to behave.  
  
Try very, very hard, he added silently. Nobles have sharp tongues - but street rats have sharper knives.  
  
* * * *  
  
Roald jammed his hands into the pockets of his breeches and stared at the doors of the Chamber. His old enemy, who would open one day far too soon and swallow him. He was afraid he would never return, his soul consumed in a blaze of failure.  
  
And yet...  
  
And yet, his encounter with the mage had intrigued him. He'd never come here twice in one day, but the thought that the Chamber was not simply mindless malignancy caught him. Of all the wild tales he'd heard, nothing had ever suggested it was - or had been - in some way, mortal.  
  
Why had it revealed that only now?  
  
Why now? He had fallen before its forbidding doors too many times before, and never seen anything but the horrible visions of his own doom. Nothing had been different today, except...  
  
Except Pip.  
  
But why would Phillippa ha Minch, in all her untamed ferocity and delightful insouciance, Pip of the sea-green eyes that washed over him not often enough - why would Pip affect it?  
  
Only one way to know.  
  
He reached out...  
  
Nothing.  
  
Every time before, there had been some reaction. Some blinding image of pain and destruction. The steel-blue eyes narrowed, and Roald was unaware how impassive and cold his face looked then.  
  
"Are you afraid?" he whispered. "Are you afraid of me now-"  
  
A burning jolt convulsed right through his body, once, twice. Roald squeezed shut his eyes at the sensation his very self was being shaken to pieces.  
  
And he opened his eyes onto somewhere quite different.  
  
Utterly unaware that Neal of Queenscove, curious to discover if Roald was sneaking off to see some lady, had followed him. Unaware that the squire had watched his friend seemingly meld into the Chamber's doors as if they were liquid.  
  
Unaware of Neal watching, debating. Reaching out and pulling back his hand in case he too was drawn in.  
  
* * * *  
  
The door opened slowly, with an arthritic groan. When the little, squinting man opened the door to see Davir before him, smiling his wicked feline grin, he squawked, and slammed it-  
  
It hit Davir's conveniently placed foot with a jarring thud.  
  
Andrea flinched too. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea.  
  
"Good morning!" said the Carthaki, leaning one dark hand on the door. "Will it continue to be so, one wonders?"  
  
"Not with you clogging up my doorway," snapped the old man curtly. "Go and play in the rain, boy."  
  
She saw the rolling shift of muscles in Davir's shoulders under that clinging chocolate-brown fabric, and the door inched open further. "The sun's shining outside, old man."  
  
There was the rattle of thunder outside, like the gods playing dice, and rain began to patter through the ceiling.  
  
"Is it now?" asked the astrologer with a knowing flick of one eyebrow. "You've got your proof, boy - now go and wave your big pointy bit of metal around and stop bothering me. I'm too busy to be harangued by barbarian invaders."  
  
A low, ferocious sound rippled out over the air, like the rip of velvet. It was a minute before Andi realised what it was.  
  
Goddess, Davir was growling.  
  
"Barbarian?" The agonised scream of the hinges as the door crept inwards a little further. "Invader?"  
  
The old man was trembling with the effort of trying to keep Davir out. Red mottled across his wrinkled face like patches of rot on a strawberry. His watery eyes flicked desperately to Andrea and a sting of pity ran through her.  
  
Cautiously, she laid a hand on Davir's arm. It was knotted under her touch, smooth as sun-warmed mahogany.  
  
He swivelled his head to stare at her, the hawkish eyes nailing her.  
  
"He's only a old man," she whispered in a quivering voice. Goddess bright, but his eyes were vicious.  
  
"Old or not," replied the Carthaki with a bite to every word, "he is rude."  
  
"Maybe he's your long-lost cousin then," Andi muttered before she could stop herself. Ryan's bad habits really *were* rubbing off on her.  
  
"Young man," interrupted Prava Mavres, his nose twitching, "remove yourself from my doorway. I do not have time to be bothered by-by..."  
  
His voice trailed off as he caught Davir's glare.  
  
"Young men," he finished weakly. "And I'll thank you not to disturb me - I'm most busy at the moment."  
  
Davir leaned on the door, and it scraped open a little further. His tiger's eyes were full of that secret, sinful amusement that Andi found disturbing.  
  
And fascinating, she admitted.  
  
"Very...delicate...experiment..." huffed the mystic, as he tried valiantly to shut the door. "My good sir...disturbing the temporal waves..."  
  
"Come now," purred Davir silkily, who didn't appear to find prising open the oak door any effort at all, "surely if we were such a disturbance, you would have foreseen all this bother, and not have opened the door in the first place?"  
  
"Momentary...slip..."  
  
The door flew open, and Prava Matres stumbled backwards, a small dusty figure in his bedraggled robe.  
  
"I want a prophecy," declared the man, stalking in with the silky stride of a panther. He bristled with hostility. Andi crept in quietly after, decidedly uneasy at disturbing King Jonathan's most favoured soothsayer.  
  
"I want some peace. It seems we cannot have what we want," snapped the old man. Andi was impressed by his defiance in the face of such silent, icy rage. She would never dared stand up to Davir if he were towering over her. "Go away, boy."  
  
"Give me my prophecy and I will."  
  
Mavres gawped. "You think you can just walk in and - and *demand* foretellings from *me*? For nothing?"  
  
The Carthaki picked up a crystal ball idly, and tossed it in one hand. "I rather think I just did."  
  
"Please sir," she put in timidly, glad to see Mavres gaze soften fractionally when he saw her, "just tell him. He's horribly stubborn."  
  
"And just horrible," snapped the old man. "I will not be bullied by this, this deviant!"  
  
"We could skip the bullying and just go straight to physical violence?" suggested Davir.  
  
This was not helping manners. Andi dug in her dress for her purse, though she doubted there was enough to pay Mavres' huge fees. It might help calm him. She held out the pitifully light amount to him, mutely pleading.  
  
The old man looked at the coins shining in her palm and shook his head. "I will not take your money, chosen," he said gruffly. "No amount of money would make me aid such an impertinent boy. Barging into my apartments like this-"  
  
"Yes," murmured Davir nonchalantly. "Your apartments. They are very - plush."  
  
His stare swept over the acres of heavy oak furniture laden with paraphernalia, with almanacs and crystal ball, chimes and mirrors, bags of herbs and even a simmering cauldron, full of something that looked green and foul.  
  
"But not much different from the lowliest soothsayer in the dirtiest corner of the docks," the Carthaki continued smoothly. He wandered over to the cauldron.  
  
"Do not drink of it!" squeaked Mavres. Sweat was beading on his forehead. "That is the sacred potion-"  
  
Davir dipped a finger and tasted it. "Nettle stew," he proclaimed. "With some excellent sea-bass, if I'm not mistaken."  
  
Mavres mouthed, wringing his hands.  
  
Frowning, Andi watched them both. What was Davir up to? Surely he had to know Mavres was genuine - why, even that comment about the weather...and of course, he'd made so many predictions for the Royals that had been correct, down to the hour of Prince Liam's birth.  
  
"Tarot cards," continued the Carthaki. "Even a loom. Come, Mavres, we both know knots and string are for the Gifted. You have the Sight...don't you?"  
  
One coal-black eyebrow was arched, and Davir's face was near frightening.  
  
"Of course I do!" Mavres snapped.  
  
"Why all these aids, then? The Sight comes as it will, and if it chooses to keep away, gazing into all the mirrors on this earth will not summon it. Or are you simply that fond of your own reflection?"  
  
Mavres was paler now, Andi saw, his lips pressed tight together.  
  
"Are you Sighted, Andrea?" Davir's question caught her off-guard.  
  
"I...no," she answered, baffled. "My god talks to me sometimes."  
  
He looked a little startled at that. She supposed not many people had to listen to Mithros when they slept, or, if he was feeling particularly tetchy, any time he chose. He called it 'instructing her'. Ryan called it 'whinging at her'.  
  
"Then you would not know much about it," murmured the Carthaki, recovering. "My mother was Sighted in her youth, but it faded as she reached maturity, as it often does - particularly in men. By the time she was forty, her visions were gone almost completely. She foresaw only her own death, and that only in the darkest nightmares. I find it odd, Mavres, that after fifty years your Sight is strong as ever. I find it odd also, that I have heard the servants speak of strange voices in your rooms, when none but yourself is present. Odd indeed."  
  
"Just what are you implying?" snapped the old man, backing away.  
  
The Carthaki tipped his head onto one side, the curl of his mouth scornful. "Perhaps you no longer see the future. But there are others who can, and you have the money to pay them handsomely. A simple speaking spell, as one might purchase from any mage, and you appear to make miraculous predictions still. It has been done before."  
  
There was a long awkward pause. Then Mavres' shoulders slumped.  
  
"You have me," he admitted hollowly. "My Sight faded over a decade ago. I still have visions, but they are unreliable. I began to use slum soothsayers. I suppose...I suppose you will tell the King."  
  
Davir gave him a long, level look and Andrea felt a soft spill of pity for this old man. Had he revealed his loss, he would have lost his exalted position. Returned, perhaps, to the streets he himself came from; not at once, but gradually moved lower and lower through the palace ranks until he stumbled out into the gutters.  
  
"That is not for me to decide," announced the Carthaki. "But I am sure you will not mind telling me who did make that most uncanny prediction about the weather?"  
  
Mavres stuttered out a name.  
  
"Good enough," murmured Davir. "Let us go."  
  
As the door clanged behind them, Andrea let her breath in a long rush. "How did you know?"  
  
He shrugged. Almost unconsciously, his hand touched his pocket. "I've seen that scam a hundred times. It was played out often in the slums of Carthak. Poor people making themselves less poor anyway they could. Rich people keeping themselves rich. It's the story of the world, and it spins out every day in a thousand small ways." After a moment, he added, "Do you wish to accompany me into Corus? I have heard your city can be very dangerous."  
  
Andi hid a smile. The first thing Ryan had done was take her into the filth and slums to introduce her to his friends. Strange friends' rogues and prostitutes and gamblers and flower girls - even a sot of a priest - but people who tightly defended their own. And Andi was somehow counted as one of their own now.  
  
"I might even be of some help," she volunteered.  
  
His look said otherwise. She would show *him*!  
  
"Perhaps," he said in a tone that agreed not at all. "Perhaps."  
  
In fact, as they made their way into the city, Andi managed to stop three cut-purses, fend off a horde of beggar children ready to thieve from a strange charitable to show his wealth, drag Davir away from the notorious Blackjack Alley, and wave off a knifeman she knew through Ryan.  
  
Davir, of course, noticed nothing.  
  
His final comment as they entered the truly vicious part of Corus was, "How safe your Northern cities are."  
  
Famous last words.  
  
* * * *  
  
"You - again."  
  
His face was arrogant as it was gaunt, and the mage reclined upon one of the long sofas so popular in Tusaine. The luxurious gold work along the arms and legs did not match his tattered black robe, surely as it did not match the cold glare. Hell in his eyes, hell locked inside him.  
  
The room was plain stone, grey slate all around, and simple as a jail cell. In it, the man was a stark thing of tortured white and torn black. Only his orange stare leant a streak of angry colour.  
  
"Me," agreed Roald quietly.  
  
"Well? Why have you returned?" The man flicked a languid hand at him, his bones jutting from the stretched skin. "Flinging accusations of fear at me. Me! Boy, I could make you scream until you clawed your own eyes from your head - I could have you skinning off your own flesh with panic, and you think to tell *me* I am afraid?"  
  
Roald shrugged. His father would have demanded answers. He knew that demands were often refused where gentler words were not. "I don't know, to be honest."  
  
The fiery eyes blinked once, as if Roald had startled him. "Few realise how little they know until they pass before me and are judged."  
  
"Why judge us?" asked Roald curiously. "How can you be impartial?"  
  
The man tilted back his head and a strange, husky laugh rippled out over the air. "I am not impartial," he declared. "Not at all. If I were impartial, there would be many more knights. What was that boy's name? Joren, that was it. Had I been impartial, I would have seen his determination, his skill, his intelligence - and let slide his wanton cruelty and his prejudice. I judge on character, not on talent."  
  
"You play with us too." Roald remembered too many times spent before these doors, haunted by visions of blood and failure. "Those nightmares...they're nothing but malice."  
  
The man shrugged. "I show you yourself. Is it my fault if what you see is not to your liking?"  
  
What you see...yes. "And why let me see you now?" Roald tried to keep his voice level. He didn't want this man to be angry with him; something in that taut, grim face spoke of rage burning deep inside.  
  
"I had my reasons."  
  
"It was Pip, wasn't it?" Roald stepped forward, closer to the man. It seemed to him the walls creaked and groaned inwards, as if longing to crush him from existence. "It was her."  
  
The man was silent, except for one brief, paroxysmal movement.  
  
"Why?" he pressed, gentle as he would have been with a crying child. "She's just a girl."  
  
The man's tense face relaxed unexpectedly, a hazy nostalgia tipping up the corners of his mouth. "That one will never be 'just' anything. She reminds me of...times gone."  
  
A woman gone, translated Roald. He knew that dreamy, mellow look; he'd seen it pasted on the faces of his friends over woman after woman. Maybe worn it on his a few times. Hopefully when no one was there to see, and notice.  
  
"She very determined." Roald smiled faintly at the thought. Pip was the kind of person who would treat the world like an overgrown puppy, giving it all her masses of affection, and never hesitating to smack it with a rolled scroll when it disobeyed. "She wants to be Shang."  
  
"A dangerous wish." Sadness in the mage's voice. "Shang eats the lives of those who follow it. Their honour is strict, and honour does not expect knives in the back."  
  
"You...lost someone?" guessed Roald. "Who were you?"  
  
Fires stoked in those eyes as if demons had slung a gallon of wine onto a pyre. "A man who loved a woman. A man who fought a war. A man who lost them both."  
  
There was a silken sound, like fabric ripping, and Neal appeared into the Chamber.  
  
"A man who is going to have *no* peace, apparently," muttered the mage with a roll of his eyes.  
  
Neal stared. "Roald?" he squawked. "What's going on? Who's this..."  
  
Then he looked more closely at the mage, and did a double take.  
  
"Iceblood?" he said. "Roald, don't tell you're afraid of a bed time story from three hundred years ago."  
  
"He's not a story," explained Roald helpfully.  
  
"Yes he is. Watch out, or Iceblood'll cut off your head? Put down that pie, or I'll send Iceblood to rip off your toe nails?"  
  
Roald could only look perplexed. What *was* Neal on about?  
  
"Maybe that was just my mother then," muttered the squire. "You really don't know who he is?"  
  
Shake. If I knew, do you think I'd be in here asking? Roald wanted to say. He didn't though; he was going to have to cope with enough questions from Neal as it was.  
  
"Then that means..." The mortified green eyes were huge, gawping at the mage. "He's real."  
  
* * * *  
  
Thank you so much for reading! Your thought would be loved, loved, loved.  
  
It pushed at the magickal wards about its tomb. Dark magick meant the Gift, and strained. Its form still moved from shape to shape, unable to decide what would be best for these new times and this new world.  
  
Not strong enough yet.  
  
Almost - a hair away from breaking its prison, and bursting back onto the world.  
  
It wanted to be in the world again. Life and colour and beauty...  
  
All there for destroying.  
  
It waited...waited to be strong. Moments passed, each slow as the slide of a glacier. Second followed second, time piling up, until...  
  
It thrust again at the magical bars of its cage. Pushed, until all its power flooded the prison-  
  
And the bars broke.  
  
It was free.  
  
* * * *  
  
Oodles and oodles of thanks to the wonderful people who reviewed last time round :o) YOu all have my total adoration and worship! Thanks to:  
  
The kick-ass Keita: Heya :o) ::grin:: Wow a review for every chapter - thanks! That's a weird habit it's good to have. I have a lot of fun thinking up the tangles in the plot (it certainly passes the time at work in my mind-numbing office job.). The characters just tend to write themselves - though some of them insist on striding into the story, annoying as many people as possible and then demanding more plot-time. :o) Curse 'em. LOL, you may have the snappy and arrogant one (provided he agrees of course.)!Thanks muchly!  
  
The marvellous MagixPawn: It really has been a year. Sorry about that ::grimace:: Not intentional at all. The updates will be more frequent; I'm out of school, have a year off (post dropping out of uni and fulfilling my potential to be a total failure ;:grin:: though I'm going back next year) and a job which doesn't care what i do all day. = Lots of writing time! I'm psyched you're still enjoying - thank you everso, chica!  
  
The brilliant Behrlie: ::grin:: Oh yes, I have my degree in mind-reading. Fully qualified member of the Unseen University! ::holds out deck:: Go on - pick a card. Any card. I have always I said will never not complete a story - and I will finish this one. It's top priority, and hey, having some time off has given me a whole new wealth of plot ideas. ::beams:: Hopefully this'll be twistier than a roomful of snakes. And not too bad on this update, right? Many, many thanks!  
  
The lovely Lady Gabrielle of Pirate's Swoop: Thank you...what took me so long was a number of personal issues I don't really want to go into. I am truly sorry it's taken so long - and I'm thrilled you like the story :o) it's a sight more than 20 pages - at least in Word. :) Mind made up - I am finishing it. Ta muchly!  
  
The jazzy Jaya: Lo chica, long time no pseak! How are you? ::grin:: No, you know I never abandon stories! Sometimes it takes me a while (especially with the general hecticism of the last coupla years) but I always get them done. And hey - this part was out pretty fast, ne? There are a lot of POVs in this story but for once (god bless the complex tangle that is Chim - it has really taught me how to draw plotlines together) I think I have a handle on them. Nice imagery there! ::grin:: Davir's fun. He gets to stay. Cheers!  
  
The beauteous Bex: Wouldnt' let you log in? Rrrr, techonology. So wonderful and yet so vexing. ::grin:: It's been a while since I read it...but lots of new plot ideas now, and lots of inspiration. Yay the dull 9-5 job! Blue and Toya are on their way - I have much of Chimera written but the next chapter will be exceedingly long due to lots to get in and not a lot of chapters to do it in. I would say Marina is a lot less ruthless than Toya...I think Blue would slaughter Rina :) Gracias!  
  
The divine Debbi: Indeed she has :O) But is she who you think...? Am I trying to confuse you (possibly.) Do I know who she is (probably not.). ::grin:: Hey! There aren't hapless bloodbath's in *every* story. There must have been *some* that were peaceful...hang on, I'll name one...  
  
::long pause::  
  
Still thinking  
  
::longer pause::  
  
Um...okay - Trifolia. Very soothing. And...and...okay, you got me. I'm a bloodthirsty maniac. Curse it! Updates muy more regularly. Thank the undemanding job! Much gratitude.  
  
The magical M'cha Araem: Yes, I was aiming for a day, but the forever snuck in there somewhere ;o) I really am very, very, very sorry about that. It wasn't at all intentional. Things happened. Life got busy. Kally does have it tough - but she probaly shoulda sat down and thought a little harder on that revenge lark. :) My parents are particularly evil in that bent (oh, how they love to slavedrive.) Davir and Kally? Intriguing thought ::pauses:: Would land both in all sorts of trouble...appealing...appealing. Why Davir  
  
has been pulling the Chamber apart will be clear, but just not for a little while yet. No, he isn't helping the creepy monster (but his taking the nail did wake it up, stupid boy.) Updates sooner - promise! Many, many thank yous!  
  
The delectable Dianna: ::grins:: Yes, I was quite surprised too! But the break has actually done this story some good. I have dozens of new ideas, and so much time to write them now (god bless dull office jobs!) Must have taken a while to read through :o) But I am v glad you're still enjoying! Genius ::blinks:: First time I've been called that! Thank you!  
  
The luvverly-jubbly Larzdinn: ::grin:: Yes, at last, after a very long break, I am getting back to this. Hey, it's nice to be welcomed back so sweetly by such fantastic people! LOL, I understand on the schoolwork. I was dropping under the weight of it last year (but soon I will be a carefree university student, and will do nothing but party for three years.).  
  
Won't argue with a lengthy review...nope, no protests at all from this corner! Of course I write the notes! The notes are the most fun part of it all...it'd be rude not to reply after y'all spend the time typing and telling what you think. ::grin;: Online personalities can be very different from IRL ones (I've heard a few 'you're not like I imagined you's which always makes me wonder what people imagine...a six-headed scaly monster? A two-legged dolphin with opposable thumbs?) Ooh, you joined - welcome to the biggest club on earth! (probably.) Many many thanks!  
  
The magnificent Megami-sama: Hello! You're a TP fan too ::beams:: Wise. I wish I could answer that question but must fall back behind the writer's old adage (and behind my riot shield, it's such an irritating axiom) - all will be revealed. In a PG way, I hasten to add. Merci beaucoup!  
  
The kosher Karigan: Aloha :o) Nice to meet you! I love TP's world - it's just big and bold and beautiful (and may she write many many more.) I will be updating soon, in fact...now ::looks puzzled, too much paradoxical philosophy for a Monday:: The *around* words is my way of putting emphasis - instead of say, italics. Cheers!  
  
~*~  
  
Comments adored! 


	11. Chapter Ten

Okay. As Granny Weatherwax would say: I ate'nt dead. It has taken me a long time to update this. Namely four years. So: if you're new here, thank you for giving this a go. If you're a former person who was kind enough to read my fics, thank you for having the patience to do so. 2008 is my year for finishing things - and this fic is one of them. As I've done over in my other fandom, I'm putting dates for my next update (and better yet - sticking to them.)

A thank you to those lovely people who commented last time (which was, scarily, before FFN has its 'reply' function on comments.) I will now be going back and replying retrospectively to the comments on the last chapter, but it'll take a little itme, so please bear with me! So thank you: **Dianna, Behrlie, Faewyn, Kichiko, Karigan, Miri Tazan, Jaya, K'Ranna, Anne McCorvey, Larzdinn, Daugain, Jennjenn, Lady Be, Alia, Hawaiikel, Rhiannon B, AA Battery, Knot2be, defiana, Sailacel, Shiegra, GuardianoftheWaves, Andie Firehawk, Indigo Spirit, Yukatalamia, Aharah Musici, Illyrian Royalty, Musical Kat, CalliopeMused, starlight15, DiSsCoNnEcTed, anonymous, Caracandel, Cherri202, jadetrickster, bellachaos and Zashera. **You are all _extremely_ awesome.

I would adore hearing what you think. I can hack criticism - so fire away. I'm a big strong girl, I can take it. Next part by Feb 20th.

And thank you for giving this a go - I hope you enjoy it.  
- Ki

**A Lady's Shield: Chapter Ten**

It was high summer when it truly began.

A time of long days and short tempers; the world was embroiled in the ruthless tug of a civil war.

Rumours were thick and rife; the commoners whispered in despair that Iceblood was dead, knocked from his horse in the midst of battle by an axeman whose blade had gleamed crimson in the sinking sun. He had been a strange champion – a man who didn't cloak his words in charm or lies, a man harder than the steel he fought with, a man who wielded magic like it was merely another tool - but he had been theirs. He had not weighed worth in gold or titles or lineage.

Hope seemed lost as the insidious hiss of hearsay reported that even the Shang were preparing to side with Justinian, that Iceblood's armies were routed and smashed, that the rape and the destruction had begun already.

In the buzzing confusion of truth and lie, a small band of Iceblood's supporters decided on a last stand; whether glorious defiance or simple suicide, news spread and soon this small band swelled and multiplied into a rag-tag militia. Soldiers with pitchforks, old rusted swords they had dug from dilapidated castles of times gone, the final motley defiance against Justinian's tyranny.

In future times, the battlefield would be all but forgotten, names unimportant, the weather meaningless, though it drizzled with grey veils of rain, clouding the bristling lines of men who faced each other.

Justinian stood before his army, a beacon in the burnished bronze armour set with dozens of tiny diamonds so he glittered like an idol. Everyone knew his banner; a red sword on a black field.

The numbers were equal, but Justinian's army were well-mounted, with clean, honed weapons and generals who were the veterans of a hundred battles. Compared to the half-organised, desperately under-equipped commoners, they were princes, every one.

Both sides knew this would be a massacre. In those final few moments, doubt shrieked out in the hearts of men who could only clutch tight their weapons and pray the end would at least be quick.

Justinian raised his hand, ready to signal his archers. Bows raised, row after row after row, aimed at heaven, and falling like the rains of hell.

He lowered his hand, and they fired-

To the last, arrows exploded in blazes of black lightning, filling the sky with the rattle of thunder.

And in fire, in glory, into legend, they came.

Iceblood and the Phoenix, walking through the army that gave before them like worshippers cleaving to their gods. They had ridden for miles under the broiling summer sun on hearing the news. But no one saw the fatigue in both faces, the toll of thousand lives dropped upon their shoulders after that brief – too brief – idyll together.

They only saw the two figures walking tall, Iceblood with a heavy sword in one hand and his familiar, battered helm of iron. Their champion, returned to them in their hour of need. And the Phoenix, more famous even than Iceblood or Justinian, who had at last chosen her side in the war.

She had chosen for love, though no one there even guessed that. They only saw two legends united, surely an omen. They saw only that the fabled Shang had chosen her side, and chosen theirs; they saw Iceblood determined and alive, and they felt hope.

It was a bitter, bloody battle on Aedon's Fell. Even legends can only do so much and men fell, in violence and fear on both sides. So many that the grass was slick to walk on, dark and slippery with blood. Hours dragged on, and each side roused itself again, magic flared through the air to pick at Justinian's army like a hyena at bones.

It was, in the end, a massacre. Of both sides.

But the Phoenix had made her choice, and so made the choice for all of Shang. Evermore, they were set against Justinian, they were allied to magic and poverty, and unsure of both. Untrusting of both.

And rightly so.

* * *

It was a swift flight, but an orderly one. 

The noise reached them long before they saw a glimpse of the battle: metal upon metal, the faint roar of Raoul bellowing commands – oddly reassuring – and strange, coughing sounds that Kel had never heard before.

They wheeled into the village to see a scene of such strangeness and carnage that Kel could make no sense of it for a moment.

Thick black smoke moved in drifts between the men, who were tightly bunched into small knots that bristled with steel. On those who were down – mercifully few – she saw terrible burns that made her stomach clench.

At the midst of one of those knots, Raoul spotted them and waved them into similar groups. "Lose the horses," he called. "Whatever you do, keep those clouds away. There are things inside them."

Things. The grim way in which he said it left her in no doubt that he meant inhuman.

"They're highly mobile. Fire weapons of some kind. Possible mages. Vulnerable to steel. Use your mages to shield you, they-"

Faster than she would have believed possible, one of the cones of smoke shot towards them. She brought her glaive up – not alone, as two other men weighed in with her, and she felt a jarring impact.

That odd, coughing sound came – and she was helpless at the sight of missiles flying at her-

They rebounded from the shield of one of their mages. She was left staring at pieces of cherry-red metal, twisted as if they had been partially melted.

With practised efficiency, the Own were forming up. She counted a dozen of the strange clouds, darting with deadly swiftness. Pieces of metal and fire hissed against magical shields and embedded themselves in wooden ones.

With the addition of numbers, the Own held a clear advantage. The knots of men began to herd the smoke-spirals, though she peered at them in vain to see what lay at their heart.

Their mages obviously had the same idea. A wind whipped past her and tore at the concealing smoke – shreds drifted away, but were replaced. Another breeze joined it – and another, until it was tugged and battered from three directions. The smoke thinned, receded-

And she gasped aloud at the sight there.

It had the shape of a man, but it was made from what looked like fire. Two shining bands clamped its wrists, and the fiery hands were raised as if in protection of its eyes. It seemed to have armour of a kind – a crude black breast plate with a design-

It shrieked beneath the daylight – and more of that noxious smoke poured from its mouth, soaked with sparks and those little, vicious pieces of metal until it was covered once more.

"What was that?" she whispered.

The creatures had obviously glimpsed that they no longer held the strength of numbers or surprise. They retreated to form an unmoving block opposite the own. For a time, the two sides remained still, silent, unsure.

"Where are you from?" bellowed Raoul into the stunned silence. "This is Tortall, a free land. By what right do you come here?"

A new, chittering sound sprang up. At first she thought it pain, but then one of those columns parted; the smoke wafted up above the creature to form a screen from the sunlight, revealing its strange, flaming form. Now she could see the insignia on its armour: a red sword. Red on black.

"By right of conquest," it said in a thick, rumbling voice that had the crash of hammer upon anvil. "This land belongs to Justinian – he has returned, as he promised. Bow to the Shadow King, or see your world burn."

"Justinian?" She heard the name echo incredulously throughout the company. Some knew it; others were clearly bemused.

"Justinian is centuries dead," Raoul said with scorn.

It chuckled. "Centuries gone. But not dead. Waiting."

"Waiting?" Raoul sounded thunderstruck. "Where? In the grave?"

It rippled, as if trying to burst the manacles on its wrist. "Beyond the grave. Where the shadows meet and merge – where the world is lit by a stranger star than yours."

"And you?" he asked. Kel was amazed his voice was so calm.

"We are his scouts. We have given you your warning. The Shadow King returns! Offer your fealty, or we will harrow you."

She already felt quite harrowed. From the uneasy silence, she was not alone.

"We have a king," Raoul said quite mildly. "And we will not surrender our land to you."

That wild, screeching sound arose again: laughter in a terrible symphony. The creature drew down its cloud again, cloaking itself.

"You will," it said. "Eventually. All falls before him: the shadows will devour you too."

Raoul began to speak – but the creatures were gone, moving so swiftly that she could hardly countenance that they had ever been there. Only the scent of them remained: dusty, acrid, burning.

"Justinian," Raoul echoed, gazing after them. "It can't be true."

"And if it is?" Buri said in a too husky voice.

The knight groaned. "Either way, the king must know. We must settle the wounded and ride for Corus."

Kel could not help wondering if he thought, as she did, of the unicorn running free – and the curse that lingered behind her.

* * *

Andrea rapped timidly on the crumbling door. Like everything else in the dilapidated street, it was about to fall apart. Rubbish heaped the gutters, tinged with rivulets of waste and dirty water that trickled through the city. 

Neither of them belonged in this filthy alley; even her hair, clean and gold, shimmered too brightly here, a beacon to any thieves down enough on their luck to be scavenging here. And as for him, dressed in Court clothing, he was a hawk in a coop of hens.

The buildings were squat and narrow, crammed together and blackened by soot. Flies buzzed heavily, and the smell was enough to make Andi gag if she didn't breathe through her mouth. In one corner, a man lay slumped, his foot twitching from time to time. Davir had coolly strolled over to examine him, and pronounced him a leper, nearly dead, without a quiver in that confident voice.

"Is it all like this?" enquired the Carthaki. "I recall your ambassador describing Corus as a rare diamond shining out in the gloom of ignorance and brutality. It seems to me too much of both hides in your slums."

"I don't know," she answered, banging on the door again. "I've only been here a month. I came from a village in the North."

"That explains that charming accent, then."

She started as the door opened, and a woman with snaking red hair peered around it. "What be you-oh, it's you, lass. Is Ryan with ye?"

"Not today. He's..." Andrea sought for a kind explanation.

"In a strop again?" Hana Alhaz, Ryan's guardian and partner in crime for ten years of his life, grinned wryly. "He gets them from time to time, girl, don't worry about it. Slap him around a bit and he soon snaps out of it. How can I...oh _my_."

Her tone had altered to a silky purr at the sight of Davir, who was eyeing her with as much interest. Andi supposed he was a rare sight; a Carthaki noble slumming it for a day. Equally unusual was his flamboyant clothing, cut in strange styles and with the glitter of silver thread at sleeves and hem.

"Bringin' me business, lass?" The redhead opened the door wide, a welcoming smile on her face. Hana was a prostitute, though Andi could still hardly believe any woman could sell herself so brazenly. "I'd not have thought it of ye, but I thank you for it. Things have been slow lately."

"Business, yes," drawled Davir, "but not the kind you're thinking of."

Hana drew herself up. A small woman at best, her glare had no effect on Davir. "No? Then why are you wasting my time?"

"Forgive me," he said icily, "but I hardly see men battering down your door."

Hana cast a disgusted glance around her surroundings. "Times are hard."

"Men, it seems, are not. We are prepared to pay – but for information."

Hana pursed her lips. "Very well. What do you want to know?"

"Nina Burridge. Where is she?"

Andi was shocked at the change in Hana's face. The shrewdness drained from her green eyes, leaving them wide and uncertain and frightened. "By the Goddess, tell me ye don't have business with that – creature! Lass, did Ryan put you up to this? Tell me it's one of his silly jokes."

Confused, Andi could only shake her head.

"Goddess," muttered the woman again. "What do you want with her? Is there no one else who can help you?"

"I need a foreteller," Davir said, more soothingly that Andi would have given him credit for. His black eyes were snapping, intrigued. "The best there is."

"Oh aye," whispered Hana, curling her hand around the doorframe as if to draw comfort from it. "She's the best. But her price is high. Higher than you or I or the King himself can afford."

They had only met a few times, but Andi had always thought Hana could take care of herself and anyone else who came along. "Are you all right...?"

The woman dredged up a weak smile. "Right enough, lass. Please – don't go to her. Anyone but her. There's other soothsayers, other places-"

"She is the best, though?" Davir cut in, slicing over her words like a knife.

Hana stopped, still. Her eyes screamed that she wanted to lie. Reluctantly, as if the words were drawn from her like wire: "She is. There's none who can match her."

"What has she done to you?" The questions were sharp, glass-shard slashes. "Is she dangerous? Will she harm us?"

"Dangerous?" Hana's lips drew tight, her body seemed to shrink in on itself until she was clutching the door as if it was all that anchored her to the world. "She'll give ye exactly what you ask for...there ain't anything more dangerous than that. That was all she gave me."

"I ask for facts," was Davir's scornful reply before Andi could speak. "And all you give me is riddles?" His mouth curled, cruel in that moment. "Tell us where we may find her, and I will give you your coin."

"Keep your damned coin," Hana hurled at him. "How am I supposed to warn ye about something I don't understand? Go down to the Docks, you blind fool, go there and ask for la Bruja, and when you get what you asked for – remember that I tried to warn you."

The Carthaki arched a cynical eyebrow. "I always get what I ask for."

Hana turned her back to them, shoulders shivering, but not before Andrea caught her bitter whisper; "And this time, ye'll get what you deserve."

She put a tentative hand on Hana's arm. "I'll try to stop him."

"Don't bother," mumbled Hana. "I know that type. He's stubborn as Ryan. He wanted to see la Bruja too, but at least I could stop him. Lass, Ryan loves ye – don't go with this Carthaki fool. Don't risk it, please."

The thought of Davir wandering through the docks alone was too horrifying. He'd be dead before he got three steps, his corpse plundered before his skin had even cooled. A sharp tongue was no defence against a sharp knife.

"I'll try to stop him," she repeated, and had to leave then because Davir was calling from the end of the street. She glanced back only once, to see Hana crying softly as she leant on the wall, her head in her arms.

* * *

"Real...?" 

The mage who had once been known far and wide as Iceblood steepled his fingers, his eyes a darkness filled with creeping shapes. Lines were marked deep on his face, so gaunt it seemed death would reach out and wrap its arms around him at any minute.

"Real," he echoed again, a bitter note in his voice. "Oh yes, I am far too real. Would that I were not, that none of it had happened, that she-"

He stopped, and Roald felt that the mage had not meant so many words to slip out.

"The Phoenix," breathed Neal, as if he understood. "She was real too?"

The mage's face was bleak. "She was more real than anyone I have ever known. More alive than anyone else. Everything else seemed as nothing when she was there. She was easy to love."

"And impossible to lose," muttered Neal, as if he quoted something. His jade eyes were keen, full of scholarly fascination. "Is everything the tales say true?"

The mage – Iceblood – shrugged. "How am I to know, boy? They wrote the legends and the lies after she and I were both gone."

Roald remembered something about a Phoenix – scattered fragments, Numair speaking about...what had he called it? The Folly, that was it. A man who... "You burned the world," he said aloud. "For seven days and seven nights, it burned. And then you – disappeared."

"Or went away," amended Neal, staring at the mage in his tattered clothes. "The legend said you died."

The angry laugh shattered the tomb-still air. "I only wished I had. Seven days I waited for her to rise out of the ashes, as she should have." The anguish in his face was too much for Roald to watch. He found himself staring at his feet, hardly able to believe this was happening. "Every night, I waited to see her walk from them, waited for her smile and her hands and her voice. But she didn't...gods, she didn't."

"Rise?" queried Neal, brows drawn together.

"The Phoenix was blessed by the gods," the mage said hoarsely. "I thought...I thought they would bring her back. She died unjustly, she was betrayed. How could they let someone so sacred die?" He drew in a huge, shuddering breath. "And when the fire died, and I was left with ashes, I realised there was no true justice. Only what men could make."

"So you made this," murmured Roald, understanding at last.

The mage got up from where he lounged in one fast, furious movement. "This," he spat. "And what good has it done? My love is still dead, and the world is still cruel and the wars rage on. What good have I done? If I could have, I would have left you all to rot."

"You could have, though," said Neal, puzzled. "The spells here have been replicated a hundred times over. They use them in court cases – even market traders sell cheap scrolls for finding truth."

"No. I could not. My purpose here runs deeper than rifling through your paltry minds. It..."

His voice trailed off, and those empty eyes widened to fill with emotion. Thick and dark as oil, it washed in, and his fists clenched at his sides.

"No..." he breathed. His head snapped to and fro between them. "Which of you two did it?" he demanded.

Roald and Neal exchanged uneasy looks. Iceblood barely seemed to be on the right side of sanity, and neither of them had the urge to remain around a mage who was a calmly confessed murderer, and seemed on the verge of becoming a loudly obsessed one.

"Did what?" ventured Roald.

"I...I..." The mage's chest heaved, fluttering under the ragtag robes. An eerie calm fell over his face, erasing the anger with uncanny swiftness. "So it is done," he said in a strange flat voice. "All my work...all of it, for naught."

"All of...what?" Neal, ever-curious, piped up.

The mage flashed a grim smile, teeth bone-white. "Does my legend not tell you that?"

"It..." Neal shrugged, spreading his hands. "Well, it doesn't say much really. You disappeared, the Phoenix died, and Justinian began his rule. The Shadow King."

"Nothing of what killed her?"

"Magic...old magic..." Roald said softly. Iceblood's attention swung to him; the gaunt face of a man who had been so preciously, nearly king. "She was betrayed."

"She was killed by a monster." The mage's voice was husky, raw with the ache of ages gone. "A creature from the Divine Realms, though there's nothing divine about it. Every seventy years, the Goddess walks on the earth as a unicorn, the price of a promise she made with a mortal. Once, there were no hounds, hunting her down. But then they were created, dreamt up by some fool mortal who wanted a show, who wanted to see a beautiful thing ripped to pieces." His laughter rattled like old bones. "Did you ever wonder who that mortal was?"

Roald wasn't sure where this was going. "No."

Neal, however, was quicker, though his voice rang with disbelief. "Justinian?"

"I must give him credit. It was a perfect trap. She walked right into it." Despite the coolness of his words, his fists were clenched and whit-knuckled. "The unicorn lived – and my girl died. My beautiful, brave girl."

"He thought that up just to kill her?" Roald whispered.

The mage's eyes were immeasurably pitying. "I doubt you can understand just how important she was to the war. She was a legend. Knowing that she fought Justinian, people flocked to our cause. If she had lived, I don't doubt that we would have won. Without her..."

He closed his eyes. He seemed reed-frail, broken.

"What was the point without her?" The mage swallowed hard. "He dreamt up four hounds, but it only took one to kill her. After, I fought it." He closed his eyes "I fought it so long, with everything I knew. I couldn't kill it...I couldn't win. But neither could it. And eventually, I realised there was only one way to trap it; to keep it here myself, forever. It lived beneath the Chamber, bound by the very fabric of the room. I enchanted every stone and every knot of wood that made this place, I put every last piece of myself into it. In the end...I put myself here, to be sure someone would remember. And in case..."

He shook himself.

"No matter. It was all for nothing. If you hadn't come here, I wouldn't have known for days...I so rarely check the spells any more."

"Known what?" said Roald sharply.

The hooded, awful eyes were intense. "Someone took a nail from the door. They've weakened the spell – they left a crack. And the hound is gone."

Neal went ghastly white. "Are you sure?"

The mage gave him such an icy look that Neal quailed visibly. "I gave up my life and my death to imprison that monstrosity. There is nothing I could be more certain of."

"It's really loose then," murmured Roald softly. He was frantically trying to remember everything he had been taught about hounds; he had notes somewhere, but even Tkaa the basilisk had only sketchy knowledge on the creatures. "They're shapeshifters, aren't they?"

"So one of you knows something. Yes, boy. The hound is their best known form – it's the only one they use in the Wild Hunt, but they could steal your face or mine and no one would be any the wiser. They are drawn to power, particularly magic, and to innocence, and of course, a unicorn is the personification of those attributes. They're predators of the highest and ugliest form. I...cannot say what will happen now that one walks free again."

"Isn't there any way to recognise them?" Neal was white as drifting clouds, but his eyes held an old gleam that Roald recognised well. Always thirsty for knowledge, their Neal, despite his dry and world-weary air. "After all, unicorns are scarce these days. We can hardly ask one to volunteer as bait."

"I don't think you understood me," the mage said slowly. "Unicorns are not its only prey. Innocence in any form draws the creature." Unspoken was the thought that the Phoenix in her strange combination of naiveté and power had fallen to its clutches. "It will be mostly searching for mages, young, powerful mages. It is only fortunate that the Gift takes years to develop properly – we can discount the very young."

'We', Roald noted, not 'you'.

"But if you have any developing mages, particularly girls, they will attract the hound."

A chill ricocheted along Roald's spine. Kally. Wilful, wicked Kally, whose healing talent was growing with every year, the natural inheritance of their parents.

"Your sister," Neal said grimly, their eyes meeting in a moment of determined accord. "And Andrea something or other. That little northern girl who runs around with the thief. There are one or two in the University as well, but the magical wards there are formidable, not to mention the number of mages it'll have to get through."

"We have to go." He had to find his sister– however stubborn she might be, he was one of the few people she would listen to and little as she might like losing her freedom, she'd put up with it for something like this. "I need to warn Kally."

"We thank you for your help," Neal told the mage with a hurried courtesy that proved the Lioness was knocking manners into him bit by bit. "But we must speak with the Palace mages, and their Majesties, and-"

"A moment." The mage was gazing around the small room with the strangest look on his face. "It...it will not be as easy to leave as I thought."

"Leave?" he and Neal chorused in disbelief.

His yellow eyes showed a brief and bleak amusement. "No one is to be tested until midwinter. I can't let this monster run free. The Phoenix died because I was too late – I can't risk anyone else. And who else knows how to hold a hound?"

"Won't you be a bit..." Neil wiggled his fingers. "Um, decayed?"

Iceblood's smile could only be described as patronising. "Magic is not what it was, it seems. The health of my body is bound up with the Chamber. It has been well cared for." He gestured to the doors. "Go. I will join you shortly."

Roald looked at Neal, who gave a little helpless shrug. There didn't seem much else to do except obey.

* * *

Ryan Talver was perched on a bar stool and the level of cider in his mug was sinking rapidly. The Princess was flirting with two men who had so much spiky metal on them that he could barely believe they were upright, and she'd just picked one of their pockets. 

Worse, she'd just pointed it out to the thug, and given him back his wallet with a kiss on one leathery cheek.

The man laughed, he actually laughed, showing a mouth almost empty of teeth.

"Easy there, lad," advised the barman with a dry grin. "That's your third already, and if Provost's men come in 'ere, I'll be fined for selling to you."

I'm teaching a Princess to thieve! he wanted to shout. I need all the alcohol I can get!

"Never thought I'd see the day old Ripper was charmed by a pretty pair of eyes," the barman continued thoughtfully.

Oh god. That was the legendary Ripper Norris she was pickpocketing? Then the other man had to be Cutthroat Sal, one of the city's most notorious brawlers.

This just wasn't good. Ryan put his head in his hands for a moment, trying not to panic.

"Any chance of another?" he asked pitifully, and the desperation in his voice must have touched the barman's wrinkled walnut of a heart because he pushed another mug across the bar.

The Ripper was coming over. Oh no. Had Kalasin offended him somehow? It was going to be knives in the street, wasn't it? He was sure to get smashed into chutney. This was what came of getting mixed up with nobles.

Ryan steeled himself as Ripper Norris leaned in, baring the few teeth that still clung grimly to his battered gums. There were so many things he'd never done. He hadn't seen the veiled dancers of Carthak. He hadn't scaled Scanra's mountains, or met one of the wild Bazhir. He-

"She's a pretty thing, your girlie," confided the thug with a distinctly infatuated look. "She says you plucked her out of some countryside village."

He was going to live. Probably.

"That I did," Ryan said, frantically trying to remember the rest of her cover story. How anyone swallowed the sweet-and-oh-so-innocent farm girl routine, he didn't know.

"Any more like her out there?" The Ripper gave him a nudge in the ribs. "Reckon she'd do well in one o' the brothels. A looker like that, you'd make a fortune. Bit like that Princess Kalasin, ain't she?"

"A bit," agreed Ryan. He wasn't slurring, was he? "Not as stuck-up, though."

"Even called Sin," carried on the Ripper, dreaminess drifting over his ravaged face. "Not hard to guess which sin she is, eh?"

"Stupidity," Ryan said glumly. "She's definitely stupidity."

The Ripper leaned in. "Well, she's a woman, ain't she? But between you and me, that weren't the sin I had in mind." He gave a hoarse chuckle.

"We all know what you got in mind," chipped in Cutthroat Sal, appearing on Ryan's other side with a suddenness that was disturbing to say the least. "Let us know when you get tired of her, lad. There's a place for her in Tortall."

"And there'll be all of Tortall in her place, no doubt," put in the bartender, from where he was drying glasses with a rag that had seen better days.

"Aye, aye," murmured the Ripper – the Ripper! "Did you see the way she lifted my money? Light fingers." He winked at Ryan. "I bet you appreciate that."

"Oh, he does," agreed Kalasin, wandering up behind him. She produced a bawdy laugh that Ryan couldn't help but be shocked by. She was even doing a passable imitation of a commoner's accent, and he had to wonder just how long she'd been plotting this. "Tell me, Maurice, where did you get that lovely tattoo of the centaur?"

Maurice? Ripper Norris was called Maurice? How had she found that out?

The man gave her a foolish grin. "Souvenir of the yearly fights, Sin. Winner gets a tattoo from the finest artisan in the city. I won three years back – took out Cutthroat's eye, over there."

She looked a little startled at that, but recovered magnificently. "I had no idea there was a competition."

"Well," said the barman, "it's not...official, as such. Provost's men wouldn't be too happy if they knew."

"Keeps us busy in winter, though," put in Cutthroat Sal, leering at Kalasin. "If not warm. I nearly had it last year – just caught a chair in the head at the wrong moment."

"Oh my," murmured the princess, and he just knew her next request would be to see a demonstration...

"Well," he said brightly, jumping off the stool and grabbing her by the arm, "Time we were goin'. I'd like to show my little country lass the sights."

"Oh, but Ryan, I'm sure Maurice and James would be happy to-"

"They're busy men, darlin'," he hinted. "An' we've got so much left to see. I haven't taken ye to the markets yet, or shown you Trickster's Lay."

"Oh, I'm sure I've heard of that. Is that where the…the ladies of the night are?" she asked sweetly.

He tried to silently communicate with her, but if she got the message that he was not, not, not taking the Princess Royal to a brothel, she ignored it.

"That's the King's Lay you're thinkin' of," said Cutthroat 'James, apparently' Sal. "Why, are you lookin' to learn a few tricks o' the trade?"

"I could help you there," drawled Ripper Norris with a knowing grin. "I know all the best whores."

Kalasin's smiled faltered, but she caught it just in time. "Oh, you prankster!" She slid her hand over Ryan's elbow, as if they were a fine lord and lady out for a walk. Half right, then. "Well, Ryan Talver, the rest of the city had better be as exciting as this fine tavern."

"If it ain't, you be sure to come back," cooed Cutthroat Sal. "We'll show you all the excitement you could possibly need."

"I don't doubt it," she agreed with a chiming laugh. Ryan subtly edged towards the exit, forcing her to step with him or let go of his arm. "Don't get into too much trouble," she said, and gave them a little wave.

Ryan threw a glance back over his shoulder as he hustled her out of the tavern. Cutthroat Sal was waving, a distinctly mawkish expression on his face. The Ripper was making an obscene gesture.

"I'm alive," he breathed, and hauled her into the cusp of an alley. "No thanks to you. You can't just…just approach men like that! Do you know who Ripper Norris is?"

She looked blank. "No."

"_Maurice_," he said with heavy sarcasm.

"Maurice is called Ripper Norris?"

"Not only is he called that," he informed her, drink slowing his words, "he earned the name when he tore off a man's shoulder with his bare hands."

"Don't be silly. No one can do that."

"Tell that to Armless Clegg," he said darkly. "It's pretty tough being a highwayman when you can't hold the knife and the loot at the same time."

She paled slightly when she realised he was serious, then pulled herself together. "I'm just a girl. They wouldn't hurt me."

Ryan cast her a sideways glance. "You don't know anythin' about the world, do you?" he said bleakly.

She levelled a hard, electric glare at him. "Isn't that why we're here?"

Her irreverence enraged him. It made a mockery of the years he and Hana had spent scraping a living from the gutter – it made a mockery of the people who passed them by, of the ones she would not see. "Fine, Princess," he hissed, "you want an education? I'll give you one. You're goin' to rule some country someday, ye might as well see what your glorious kingdom'll be built on, aye?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, but he had grabbed her hand and was dragging her through the streets, weaving around the ever-shuttling, ever-changing loom of the crowds, fury boiling in his veins.

"You'll see," he snapped. If she heard, she didn't reply – she was too busy trying to keep up as he took her down into the dark, uncaring heart of the city.

* * *

Pip groaned as she stumbled into her rooms. And it was stumbling; bruises dark as blackberry stains were already rising on her skin, hidden under her clothes. 

She fell flat onto her bed, exhausted. The Horse and the Wildcat had shown her how little she truly knew; that everything she had learned until then had been mere practice for what lay ahead. Her muscles felt taut and aching, and for the first time she felt the physical burden of the path she had taken.

Part of her regretted it; another part seethed that she had not been good enough and that the pain and bruises were mere confirmation of this. Try harder, be better, be a weapon and a wonder in one flesh.

It was still what she wanted.

Her brother would be aghast if he saw her now. He had grown used to her eccentricities, as he dryly called them, but this stepped beyond the bounds of propriety. She heard his voice at the back of her mind, logical, calm, level. That was Kieran ha Minch all over.

"What do you hope to achieve, Pippa?" he would say. "You're a noblewoman and you can't possibly hope to succeed. Even if you do, what then? It's a commoner's sport, and you're the daughter of a highborn house – one of the foremost families in Tortall. Would you really bring such disgrace on us?"

Yes, she thought, because it wouldn't be disgrace. Not to me.

"And what about marriage?" she heard him reply. Worst, she thought, was the tenderness that would be in his voice. Kiery was upright and dull as a stick, but she didn't doubt his genuine affection for her. "Pippa, don't you want a family, children, love?"

She knew well the look in his eyes when he gazed at Uline; oh, her brother had been smitten by love and though it could not override his pragmatism, it brought out another side to him that she had been unaware of. Kieran the romantic, capable of better compliments than, "You look almost respectable today."

Do I want those things? she asked herself.

She had expected to have them somewhere along the line, simply because she was the daughter of a noble and a marriageable prospect. But she had always seen it far in the future, some vague and inexorable fate, and she had never cared for it one way or the other. It was her function, nothing more.

"Nothing more?" echoed her brother's ghost (her conscience, she supposed) with outrage. "It's your duty."

It was her duty as a noble to do what was best for her family and her country. But Pip was no longer sure that meant a marriage.

No. That wasn't true: she knew that she could not walk up the aisle and walk down the Shang's wild path. The nobles would not accept it – her own heart rebelled at the idea. It would be like learning to fly and then stepping into a gilded cage, for what man would want a wife who could make no promises to stay with him, who would dive willingly into battle, who was wed to combat as much as him?

And if I loved someone, she thought, if I truly did, could I do that to them?

She hoped not. But she could not honestly say that she would not act with such callousness if forced to it. Such was the price of a dream – sacrifice, in whatever form it came.

As she lay on her bed, body burning, she knew that she would pay it.

* * *

It was starving. 

It had lain trapped for centuries, famished, twisting and turning in its hunger pangs. The hunt had gone on without it, and each time it felt its prey blazing from the heaven to run free and wild on earth; each time, it had fought its bonds to no avail, and had only fallen back slavering, remembering the last taste of true innocence it had felt trickling down its jaws.

It took shape as it walked, drawing its inspiration from memory and the faces that blitzed by until it was a young man in the glory years of his life, fearless and had they but know it, fearful.

He walked again under the distant sun, and searched for a suitable meal to break its fast. He wore the human face like a cloak as he strolled among the people, seeking, stealthy, starving.

The Palace had its share of youth and of innocence and of magic, but everywhere he felt the three together, he felt too other, stronger mages who would throw it back. No, he would not take the risk – he would not be incarcerated again!

His feet took him from the palace, down into the vast conurbation of human construction and human masses. Ah…there…there, something tasty, something alone and unprotected…smouldering not so far away. No, not one but two of those bright sparks, lighting up the sullen streets like the stars.

He wavered only a moment, and then he chose the one whose life would bring him back to his full powers.

His lips parted; his eyes were bedazzled by desire and as he went into the city, people glanced at the young man who wandered by, and mistaking his appetite for love, let him pass by, inhuman as human, the monster on his way to slaughter. In truth, it was love of a sort, but dark and strong and violent.

They could not tell the difference. Nor could he.

* * *

Thank you so much for reading - I would absolutely adore hearing what you thought. 


	12. Chapter Eleven

Evening all...hot, on time and as promised!

Thank you to you most lovely (and indeed, long-memoried) people who reviewed last time:** Roses of Sharon, Kichiko** (thank you! Rereading it may take a while - I didn't realise how far I'd got into it until I went back and edited...), **Ginastar**, **Starlight15**,**Zashera, Queen of Slayers, Dramoskye, saty** (thank you! I have a lot more fun and mayhem planned.)**, Musical Kat, Muffing** and last but most certainly not least, the fabulous **crouchingbunny**.

I adore hearing what you think - comments and criticism are very much welcomed, whether public or PM! Next part up by March 8th.

I hope you enjoy reading,  
Ki

**A Lady's Shield Part Eleven**

There was, for a brief time, a renaissance of hope. Even in a land blighted by civil war, people still found occasion for laughter, and in the days after the Phoenix declared for Iceblood, a certain giddiness filled their followers.

After all, what could go wrong? They had magic and legends among them. Common men marched beside names they'd only heard in tales: the Shang Fox married a village girl who crowned him with bluebells. The Eagle and the Grasshopper moved from place to place, teaching rudimentary strategy and whatever weaponcraft could be passed on easily and quickly.

But there were others. The Adder grimaced at the rough huts he had to sleep in, and slapped an old wisewoman who smeared a poultice on his silks. For all her sweet face, the Kitten would not touch anyone who was not scrupulously clean. Others, too, bridled at the careless familiarity of allies, some of whom had been their servants – or were still their families' retainers.

A tinge of dissent, of disgruntlement, was woven under the laughter and the hope. Insidious, it spread like a shadow.

In love and dizzied by it, the Phoenix did not notice. And if Iceblood thought the nobles cold, then they were not the first such he had encountered. Nor did he possess the familiarity and knowledge to sift the complex politics of the Shang.

They had become legends so easily. But they were still human in so many ways: a girl in the flush of first love. A man better-suited to weapons of war than double-edged words and the clever games of courtiers.

No surprise then, that they did not note the absence of their detractors. Shang were prone to wander, after all, born to it: to feel the rough cast of everchanging ground and sleep beneath a different sky each night, whether their pillow was feather-down or grass.

It never occurred to anyone that their loyalties might travel as far as their feet.

Dissent spread like a shadow: and was subsumed by the king of shadows, poised upon his dark throne.

* * *

"Where are we going?" the princess asked between gasps as Ryan dragged her at a near-run through the city. 

The streets were narrower here, the houses leant upon one another like drunken men. High walls kept the sun at bay, and if she could not hear the effluvium sloshing in the street, the reeking air certainly gave it away.

"Somewhere real," he answered curtly.

"What do you mean, 'real'?"

He stopped and faced her. Even in the gloom, there was no denying the clear light of her eyes, the steady gaze of someone who had never truly known fear or despair, who had never sunk to the basest level of themselves in order to survive.

"Somewhere where your face an' your name won't save you," he said quietly. "Where it ain't like a game, where you're not just a princess slummin' it for a day. This city was built on blood an' grief, paved with it stone by stone. Until you see what that means, you ain't fit to rule a country."

"I don't think you're in any position to tell me what I am or am not fit to do," she said frostily, drawing her coldness up around herself as if it were armour. Possibly it was. But it was no match for his anger.

"I'm in exactly the position!" He stepped close to her, taller, intending to intimidate her. "People like me – the lowest o' the lowest, the vermin in the gutters – we're the ones who need you most. We need the good rulers an' the strong ones, because we ain't got no one else to fight for us."

"You?" Her voice vibrated with incredulity. "You don't need anyone to fight for you!"

She really believed it. It was her innocence that shocked him, absurd beside that hardness that she had cultivated in herself until she was brittle and glassy as a lady's trinket. Under all those barbed remarks, she was just a girl who'd been sheltered from a world she wasn't meant to see.

But she needed to see it nonetheless.

Gentler, Ryan turned his arms again, reminding her of the scars there. "I don't now. But I was lucky. I had someone who dragged me out o' the gutter. She wouldn't let me die there. I would'a, though, if she hadn't come. I were a broken thing – barely human some days, when the hunger were chewin' me up from the inside out, an' my fingers were too cold to thieve."

He didn't like to think of those days. They seemed little more than sour smoke, clinging to him only in scraps. Faces became one endless blur – all he could recall clearly, too clearly, were their eyes, which were unchanging, like a glimpse into the same ravenous abyss.

He'd done things he wasn't proud of. Some he'd been forced to. Some, he'd gone to because it was money or shelter or a few minutes warmth.

Then Hana had come. Something in his hunched, scabbed form had stirred her, and she'd taken him away. Salvation had been her red hair, scandalously bright in a world of shadows, and her scoldings as she scrubbed him clean of mud and lice, and bawdy songs when he couldn't sleep.

He still hummed those songs in restless nights. But even they sometimes failed to drive away the memories.

"You don't know what you'll do to live," he told her, his eyes distant, old, bedevilled. "You don't know how low you can go. You weep 'cause you have to marry a man you don't know. But I bet he'll touch you soft an' speak you sweet, an' he'll treat you like a person."

"Yes," she whispered, fixed upon him as if in awe or horror or some brew of the two.

"Then you mark me good," he said. "Because where we're goin', there ain't much human left." His smile was crooked. "An' I called it home once."

She reached out, and her fingers clasped his briefly. The touch startled him, and maybe it startled her as well, because Kalasin drew back suddenly, flushed.

"I'm frightened," she said.

"Then you're learnin'," he answered, but when he led her down to the slick, stinking docks, he kept close by, because her confession had touched him. And perhaps because everything in her eyes was opposite to what waited for them there, what he had seen in every face all the squalid days of his childhood.

* * *

The stairs creaked as they climbed them. The smell of mildew hung all about the place, a dark festering hovel that hunkered on the very edge of the river as if waiting to topple in. The first three people they had asked for La Bruja had scuttled away without a word. The fourth had let out a little cry and would have followed suit if Davir hadn't grabbed her so quickly that her heels skidded on the cobbles. 

And so they had come here.

Andrea stared at Davir's broad back and hoped he knew what he was doing. This part of the city was new to her – entirely different from the poor but lively haunts that Ryan had shown her. No one here smiled or jested: even the sunlight seemed to shy from the grey-green slosh of the river, the decrepit houses, the thin shadows of people who flinched back from them.

She'd thought the docks were full of trade: and so they were, but it was the trade of life for anything offered, bargains struck in desperation and pathos.

No one had tried to rob them. No one had tried to sell them anything. All seemed shrouded in despair, and it struck a cold terror in Andrea that she had never thought she would feel again.

It reminded her too much of the life she had left behind, of those last days in the village waiting for the whisper of the noose.

At the top of the stairs, the door was open. And from it, a low, husky voice said, "You'd best come in, my fine lad, and be sure to scrape the mud from your boots."

Behind them, the splintered door slammed shut, pitching them into darkness. She could not stop her gasp.

Silently Andrea begged Davir to refuse, to go, to be wise.

"Tell that little golden girl she'll be safer inside than out," the same smoky voice said. "The shadows have teeth here."

"Davir..." she whispered.

"I must see her," he said quietly. "Although...I could wish I hadn't dragged you into this."

She wished it too. She wished Ryan were here, to crack jokes and draw his knives so that she would feel safe. But he wasn't – and wasn't she one of Mithros's chosen, wasn't she supposed to be a warrior in her own way, feeble as that might be?

Andrea tried to swallow her fear. But as she followed him up, her hands fumbling blindly along the walls, she could not stop shaking.

* * *

The nameless wanderer drifted through the streets, his movements grace and hunger combined. His eyes were dazzled by the colour and sound and texture of this place, so different from the still, silent dark where he lay for aeons. Every breath was flavoured with the city, every movement hindered by this bustling, thrumming crowd of creatures who had no idea that death slid through them like a viper. 

When a hand touched him, that small, careless gesture made him stop and gasp, intoxicated by the feel of skin on skin. Until he was nudged on by muttering people, too busy to stop and look at him as more than an annoyance.

Their heartbeats sounded in his ears. Their blood sang to him.

He was so hungry.

But none of them were what he sought. That flame burned in the distance, and he followed it, his mouth dry with anticipation.

Innocence, slick in his throat, soft between his teeth. He thirsted to possess it in every way possible, to be subsumed by it until he was no longer dark and empty and ravenous.

The nameless wanderer drifted towards the docks, ready to kill.

* * *

"Justinian," mused Raoul. Hooves clattered on the ground, mingled with the silvery jingle of armour and weapons. They were making good time: Greendell had been within a day's ride from Corus, and even their detour to fight those strange creatures had not taken them far from the main road. The wounded had been left in the village with enough men and mages to protect them while the rest of them rode for the capital. 

The Shang Stormwing would have been left behind – indeed, should have been left behind – if not for her cool insistence that she was not theirs to command. She had gone so far as to purchase a horse from the villagers, who had undoubtedly charged her a massively inflated price from the scowls and surly comments they muttered at her back. Thus provisioned, Raoul had not been able to convince her to remain.

"But if there is so much as a whisper of trouble," he warned her flatly, "I will not risk my men for you."

Her smile had been cool. "You will not need to. I am quite capable of handling any trouble."

The remark might have had more effect if Kel hadn't seen her tiny grimace of pain as they set out. Her wounds must have hurt, even atop that placid mount, but the woman kept her face fixed in a blank mask. None of the men spoke to her after the first was rebuffed with a flat stare, and so she journeyed alone even in a mass of people, her isolation surrounding her like a cloud.

"Can it be true?" Raoul continued. "It sounds like a child's tale."

"True or not, it means trouble," remarked Buri. "We have invaders in our lands – does it matter whose name they march under?"

"Not really," the big knight admitted. "But it's a puzzle, and I'd rather think about that than what His Majesty will say when I tell him he has yet another battle on his hands."

"Hmm. Well, I've never heard the name."

"I have, but only in a history lesson." Raoul frowned. "And that was a long time ago. But we have younger minds among us. Kel?"

She dug into her memories for the pieces of those lessons, which seemed ages away: out here, under the sky, the walls of a classroom seemed incongruous. "He was known as the Shadow King and his reign was one of the bloodiest in our history. He was intensely paranoid – he won the throne in a civil war that divided the country, and he won it despite the fact he despised mages and the Gift, but ever after, if he so much as suspected rebellion, he would scourge that area of the land. He used torture freely: he burned men and women and children alike because he claimed the flames would purify them."

"Sounds charming," Buri muttered grimly.

"But even though he hated magic," she said slowly, recalling the teacher's slow, placid speech which had made even such a lurid period of history dull, "he used Immortals in the civil war. He caught them in traps and then broke them so they would be obedient. He turned them on his enemies – tame, mad things that could withstand magic. His reign lasted for over fifty years and then he vanished one day. People literally woke up and he was gone. Some people thought the gods had taken him away to punish him. Others thought he'd fled because a genuine, strong rebellion had begun to form against him and all his burning couldn't destroy it. But no one really knows. So...I suppose he could be alive," she said doubtfully.

It didn't seem likely though. Only gods and Immortals could live so long. Men had no such privilege, and she wasn't sure that was a bad thing.

"You suppose?" The Shang Stormwing's voice cut across them like a blunt axe. "Has your land forgotten the truth of him? Justinian dealt with demons. Every soul he burnt was a tribute to them and his reward was a deathless existence." She spat on the ground. "Such is the price of ambition."

"Demons," Buri said with raised eyebrows. "Stories, nothing more. Our understanding is that this man, this monster hated magic."

Her laugh was husky and contemptuous. "Stories have their birth in truth. He might have hated it, but that doesn't mean he would hesitate to use it. There is power in blood and death and pain, and our tales say that he craved power more than anything."

Before the debate could become an argument, Raoul cut in. "Either way, if someone is raising a banner in his name, we can be sure they won't have much in the way of mercy. The sooner we get back, the better."

Buri nodded at the horizon, and Kel was relieved to see the bulk of Corus rise the distance, faint and grey at this distance, but at last within sight. Her spirits rose and as the rest of the company saw, their pace picked up, their news driving them onwards like a fey breeze.

The Shadow King. That dry history seemed far too relevant now: she shuddered, and prayed it was not so.

* * *

La Bruja, they called her, and this was her den: a cramped, reeking little room lit only scantily by candles and thin threads of daylight that trickled through the gaps in the thatch. Strange paraphernalia littered the room: stones, string, a snakeskin flung over the back of a rickety chair, what appeared to be a browned bone. Only the woman herself was invisible- 

No, there she was - a curving shape in the shadows. Andrea strained to make out the face of Nina Burridge who had made Hana weep so pitifully, who had made so many tremble at her name.

Then she slithered forward, and Andrea saw that she was a woman of no more than forty, but one hard-lived; her smile was all gum and blackened teeth, her skin pocked with marks. "Hello handsome," she purred in a voice that was shockingly young and vibrant.

Davir smiled at her as easily as if she were a beauty in the Court. "Nina Burridge, I presume."

"Presume a little more than my name, boy and I'll settle a future on you to match your face." Her gaze was avid. "I haven't had a man like you in years."

"And I'm afraid you'll have to wait a little longer," he said smoothly. "I've come to discuss the future."

But her gaze had slipped past him, and Andrea almost cowered from the shrewdness and the coldness in her pale eyes. "Well now," she breathed. "What a lovely bit you are. So much power there...what I'd give you for a taste of it."

Unable to speak, she only stared back, prey. Then Davir stepped in front of her, and his protectiveness made her glad.

"Give her peace, that will be enough," he said with his familiar acerbic tone. "I am the one who has come to deal with you."

La Bruja chuckled, a sweet sound, but oddly sinister. "You have nothing I want."

"I need my future told," he said firmly.

"Aye, boy, that's what _you_ want. But this is about what I want, and what I want is her."

She felt a chill go through her. There had been a brief, savage hunger to Nina Burridge's face in that moment.

"I will pay you handsomely," he persisted. "Whatever you want-"

"Her."

"I have coin-"

"Her," she repeated and there was a dangerous flatness to her voice. "That is the price of the future. Nothing else will satisfy me."

For the first time, Andrea heard desperation in his voice. "I am not here on a whim. Our most powerful prophet sent me-"

"How thoughtful of him." Her voice was mocking. "But I care nothing for your prophet – only for my profit, boy."

He turned to her. His eyes were bright, vulnerable in a way she had not imagined he could be. "Andrea, I would not ask this unless I had to..."

She shook her head, terror welling up in her throat, pricking at her eyes. "No, not her."

How young he seemed then – indeed, he wasn't so much older than her, and he was afraid. It gentled that scornful mouth, took the poise from his stance. He reminded her sharply of Ryan, all edges and pride, wrapped up in finery that didn't quite suit who he truly was.

"I must have her help," he said softly. "I was not sent only to guard that infuriating, selfish princess, though that's work enough for a lifetime. I was sent because our seers saw that there was something I had to do – something which might help avert disaster in Tortall."

Her head whirled. "Does your Emperor care so much about what happens to us?" she said. After all, mere years ago, Carthak had been at war with them, and though everyone said that the new ruler was different, the dizzying change of politics seemed strange, unbelievable to her.

"Oh yes," he said. "My cousin would have Tortall for his ally – though I'd rather he didn't have that shrew for a wife."

His disrespect made her wince. "What did they send you to do?"

He eyed as if he wasn't sure of her – and then heaved a huge sigh, raking his hands through his hair. "I stole a nail from the Chamber of the Ordeal."

Maybe she'd been around Ryan too long but that didn't exactly seem the height of criminal activity to her. "Is that it?"

"That's it."

"And what's that supposed to do?"

He shrugged. "That's why I am here. To find out what I must do next."

She licked her lips. "What…what is this disaster you're supposed to stop?"

His breath brushed her ear as he leaned in. It would have intimidated her earlier, such nearness: now, she felt oddly comforted for he seemed real, solid, human in this strange place.

"War is coming. An army of monsters and the dead, roused by a man who should have vanished from this world long ago. If he succeeds, he will rule a land of shadows and endless cruelty – he will have screams for his music and brutality for his laws and no throne bar that built on the bodies of your people. His power is such that ordinary weapons will not harm him – but there is an entirely extraordinary power which is equal and opposite to his. That was the first step in waking it. It didn't please the gods to show the seer any more." He paused and said bleakly, "Or it pleased Chaos to keep us blind."

With each word, her panic seemed to recede. She'd had a small taste of a place like that – and she had been lucky enough to be rescued from it. Knowing what lay at stake, even with terror cold in her heart, how could she refuse him?

Quivering, she stepped forward. Her voice was thin. "What do you want?"

Nina Burridge gave her ghastly, broken smile. "Oh, nothing too terrible, golden girl. Come here."

She crooked a finger and Andrea could do nothing but obey. She tried not to recoil when the woman stroked her hair, murmuring, "Like sunlight, aye." That grimy hand crept to her throat, and slid around it as if she might strangle her. "So much power."

And then a knife was flashing towards her – Davir shouted, the sound a whipcrack, time slowing to a crawl as she stood frozen, unable to do anything-

Andrea shrieked at a hot, sharp pain in her arm. Stunned, she stared as blood dripped from the gash there into a bowl that the woman held out.

"You mad old hag!" the Carthaki snarled.

He wrenched her from that cold grip, stripping off his cloak to clamp it over the wound. Andrea let him tend to her, woozy. It wasn't a deep cut, but she knew the shock of it was making its way through her body.

Nina Burridge was swilling the blood gently, peering at it as if it were gold. She glanced up almost absently at his harsh words. "I'd be careful of my words, boy. Mad old hags such as me have our ways of commanding respect." Her eyes glittered. "Especially when I have such powerful tools at my fingertips."

He was rigid with fury. "You have what you wanted," he bit out. "Your price is paid."

"A future, you wanted," she said. "For yourself? I need some token of yours."

He dug into his clothes: Andrea was unsurprised to see him pull out a nail. "Here."

Her eyes narrowed. "An...unusual choice."

"I am an unusual man. Get to it."

"Don't provoke her," mumbled Andrea softly. "It didn't help last time."

Some of his tension vanished when he looked at her. "No," he said ruefully, "it didn't, did it? I am sorry, Andrea. I shouldn't have brought you here."

"Was that an apology?"

"Indeed." He smiled wanly. "Keep it to yourself. I'm not known for them."

"What have you brought me?"

Nina Burridge's gasp interrupted them. Her face was beaded with sweat, her eyes glazed. She rocked back and forth, fingers clenched tight about the nail.

"You fool," she breathed. "Do you know what you have unleashed? Centuries it lay in the dark, held only by the will of a broken man – and you have let it out again to devour us all! It must be stopped."

"How?" he demanded, brusque, urgent.

A vast, shuddering breath wracked her. "I do not...I cannot..." Her back arched. "She must rise from the ashes, rise and burn again, or all is lost. Wake the phoenix, boy, call her back down the fiery path and make the old bargain, or we are all lost."

She gave a cry and the nail clattered to the floor. Through strings of greasy hair, Nina Burridge stared out at them. Her face was terrible, twisted with fury, her eyes white and wild.

"You dare bring this to me," she breathed. "Get out! Get out of my sight, you dog! You have brought death here, and I only hope that it will take you first and you linger long in its jaws."

Power crackled in the air – deep red fire crackled about her, casting a ghoulish light on her. Her hands rose, threatening, and Andrea knew she did not have the strength to try and fight her.

"Go," snarled la Bruja, monstrous – but under it all, afraid. No, terrified.

With no further talk, they obeyed, her words chasing after them like a riddle, a geas, a curse.

_Wake the phoenix or we are all lost._

* * *

Kalasin was silent as he took her to the heart of the docks. When they came to a house with a red lantern flickering in its window, she made some sound of protest and he turned to her with his face grim and aged. 

"You need to see," he said quietly. "You got to learn."

The proprietor licked her lips at the sight of their faces, and suggested the likes of them wanted the King's Lay or the Pleasure Gardens. But his coin stifled her protests, and Kalasin shuddered as he took her into the heart of the house with its rotten floorboards and faint cries echoing from the rooms.

"How do you know this place?" she whispered as he led her through the narrow corridors.

He didn't look back. "I used to live here."

He felt her silence, shocked, repulsed, he imagined. But then her hand coiled around his, gentle, and she said, "I'm sorry."

"Sorry," he said softly. The word was ashes to him, bitter, too late. "You want to see sorry, you open your eyes and look about you."

As they entered the room, she gasped and her grip tightened.

The girl who lay in the bed was a wreck. There was no other word for it. The mattress was stained, the small window coated with dead insects. Her hair was tangled and begrimed, and if she'd had beauty, the pox had eaten it away to leave only hollows and scars. From the waist down, she was naked, her thin, bruised legs apart as if in offering, her lips slack and open in ghastly echo.

Her eyes were dead. No spark moved there: nothing but a void lay inside her.

"I knew her once," he said. "She were a right beauty. Susie Starshine, they called her, an' said she'd be the one to make it out'a here. Her hair were red like fire, an' she had this laugh – all soft an' smoky, it sent shivers down ye. She charged in silver, not in coppers, an' each man swore she were the Goddess come to earth to lay with mortals so's they could taste heaven afore they died."

"What happened to her?" she whispered, gazing at that vacant face.

"She hated the work. She drank away her profit to make it all a mist, an' then a day came when the drink weren't enough, so she took powders instead until she were bright an' addled an' lively as lightnin'. But they weren't enough either, so she took more an' more until all her mind was eaten away by herbs an' black magic. This is what's left, an' now they say she's the Crone come to earth to lay with men an' warn 'em of hell before they die."

He fell silent, remembering too keenly that girl he'd known, who'd radiated such hope, such joy.

"I still remember her laugh," he said softly.

Kalasin shivered beside him. "I didn't know."

"No," he agreed. "But this is what ye'd be if you were born here. An' ye'd auction your beauty for silver like she did, ye'd try to forget like she did. This is what it means to be poor, my fine noble lady." His voice was more hostile than he had intended, and she flinched from him. "This is what it means to be forgotten, to have nothin' because ye've sold all you had to hungry strangers. She needed you when she were Susie Starshine, blazin' in the dark, but you left her here, an' she faded, same as any star."

To her surprise, he went over to the girl and drew the ragged sheet up over her. She did not twitch; only the lift of her chest even indicated she lived. Ryan bent down and pressed a kiss to her sallow forehead.

"She were kind to me," he said quietly. "She didn't have to be. Even when she were drunk as a sailor, she knew how to be kind."

He could not bear to remain any longer, and so he strode out with the princess trailing in his wake like a scented dream, a piece of the life that Susie Starshine had reached for so desperately.

When at last he was calm enough to look at Kalasin again, tears gleamed in her eyes. It roused him from the torpor he'd been sunk in, from the despair that had clung to him.

"Don't cry," he said gruffly. "Ye angered me. I...shouldn't'a taken you there."

Her face was pale, but resolute. "You should have. I didn't know... That can't continue. I won't let it."

He wanted to laugh at her naivete, but he found himself touched by it. "It will, but if ye can save even one person from that life, then it'll be worth it."

He didn't look back: but as they left, he thought for a moment he heard a careless, merry laugh, glimpsed a flare of red hair. But Susie Starshine was nothing more than a husk, a memory withered into dirt and silence.

* * *

The nameless wanderer breathed in the scent: blood mingled with magic. Close, so close. The hunger rose until it was immense, sharp as a blade twisting in his gut. 

The other was nearby too: he was torn by the thought of devouring them both, glutting himself on their sweet, bright power. He hesitated, but only briefly, then went back to his original quarry, her scent thick with blood, and luring him with the force of an enchantment.

Beautiful, deadly, he closed in.

They crashed out onto the street, Andrea clutching her arm and hauled along by Davir.

"Did you understand _any_ of that?" she asked, letting him guide her along the waterfront. She still felt sick and dizzy, but the worst of the pain had subsided to a dull ache.

"No, but I have high hopes that your scholars will," he said grimly. "Are you all right?"

She glanced at her swaddled arm ruefully. "I will be. I hope that knife was clean."

"I very much doubt it," he said sourly. "Let's get back to your palace. I've seen enough of this fair city for one day-"

He ground to a halt, and she nearly stumbled over him in the process.

"What kind of mad mummer's farce is _this_?" he breathed, and there was only blistering fury in his eyes.

Bemused, Andrea followed his gaze – and saw a figure she knew far too well. But why would Ryan provoke such anger-

Then she glimpsed the face of the girl with him: and there was no mistaking her, not when Andrea had seen her gliding across the Court every day. Even wrapped in simpler clothes, Princess Kalasin was striking.

Why on earth had Ryan brought her _here_?

She was left foundering as Davir strode over to them with such force she half-expected the ground to crack under his feet. His hand clapped onto the princess's shoulders: she squeaked, Ryan drew a knife, and it was getting messy-

"Ryan, don't!" hissed Andrea, scurrying over to join them. "He's a friend."

Davir didn't look particularly friendly at that moment: the glare he turned on Kalasin was ferocious. "Have you lost whatever remains of your minuscule mind?"

She tried to shrug off his grip, to no avail. "Have _you_ lost your sense of propriety? I am a _princess_."

Out of her view, Ryan rolled his eyes.

"And I am your bodyguard!" he snapped back.

"Is he?" mouthed Ryan. Andrea nodded a quick confirmation, and he edged away from the pair of them. Whatever madness he'd suffered in bringing the princess – gods, the Crown Princess, who was second-in-line to the throne – clearly didn't extend to wrestling fuming Carthakis.

"You are a nuisance foisted on me by a man who clearly has so little confidence that he must treat me like a pet dog!" Princess Kalasin spat, and wrenched one of his hands away by dint of digging her nails straight into the back of it.

Davir's eyes were dark and cold. "Such caution is clearly justified. What on earth are you doing in the middle of the slums?"

Her cheeks were scarlet, she almost incandescent with wrath; her voice was contemptuous. "Visiting a brothel."

That shut him up.

"You didn't!" Andrea hissed at Ryan.

He looked guilty. Clearly, he had.

"A brothel." Davir's words were level and far too calm. "Princess Kalasin was in the lower city visiting a brothel. An idea as foolish as it is redundant."

The Princess went white with rage. "Barbarian!"

"If that is your idea of civilization, I'll accept the insult gladly," he retorted. "Look about you! This place is dangerous. To go strolling about it is pure lunacy!"

"Oh, but it's perfectly suitable for you to come here?" she fired back at him.

"I am not the second-in-line to the throne," he said through gritted teeth. "I have neither fame nor fortune."

Ryan snorted. "Aye, well, no one'd know that with them fine clothes. Ye think you're any safer?"

"I am capable of defending myself," Davir said mildly.

"An' I'm capable of defendin' her," pointed out the street-rat. "I got blades. I got magic. Now, d'you want to tell me why you're bringin' Andi into such a damn dangerous place?"

For the first time, the harsh glaze in Davir's expression faded to regret. "Because I was thoughtless," he said, and there was a rueful note in his voice. With breathtaking speed, a knife glittered in his fingers then vanished again. "I had no magic to protect her. Today I needed it. You must be her partner in crime."

Ryan eyed him warily, then he glanced at Andrea. "He all right?"

"I think so," she said wryly. "He doesn't put up with any nonsense."

The thief nodded, then stuck out a hand. "Ryan Talver," he said. "And I've never seen a noble use a knife like that. You got the scent of the streets about you."

"Davir sin Porphyros." He paused. "These days. When I was a child, I went by Davy One-Cut."

The princess was staring at him in disbelief. "But you're...you're royal."

"A very dangerous thing to be when Ozorne ruled," he murmured. "It did me no favours. I lived in greater comfort on the streets than I would ever have done in the palace." He surveyed her and said coolly, "And I know their ways well. Maybe next time you want to go roaming around the backstreets you'll have the common courtesy to inform me."

"You'd never let me."

A smile hooked up his mouth. "Are you so sure?"

She stayed silent.

"I'll strike you a deal, princess. I will keep my silence about this little trip, and I will even accompany you on further – expeditions."

"What do you want from me?" Kalasin said suspiciously.

Davir's smile widened until it curved like a crescent moon. "No more screeching. No more insulting the emperor until you've had the chance to meet him and can aim your barbs with a little more accuracy. No more sneaking off. I won't even ask for courtesy."

It wasn't as though she had much choice in the matter, Andrea thought. But Kalasin was shrewd enough not to show it. "Very well." She tossed her head. "Then I demand you escort me back to the palace. There is a grand masquerade being thrown tonight for some utter non-entity and I have no desire to miss it."

"Oh," Davir said mildly. "And no demanding, except in emergencies."

She didn't answer: instead, she stalked back towards the palace, trusting that they would follow her. Davir muttered something distinctly unflattering and followed in her wake like a stealthy, patient panther.

"Lass, your arm," Ryan said, seeing it for the first time.

Now they were alone, Andrea had other things to consider. "Never mind that, Ryan, a brothel?"

"It weren't like that," he protested. "I wanted her to see...to see..." He faltered, and she glimpsed something new, and terrible in his eyes. Shame.

In all the time she had known him, Ryan Talver had been a maelstrom of emotion – bold and reckless and angry and anguished – but never that.

"I wanted her to understand that it ain't no joke, bein' poor," he said quietly.

She didn't pry. She was afraid of what she might unleash. "And did she?"

"I think so." He swallowed. "Lass, let's go. I don't want to stay here any more. The longer I stay here, the more it seems like I never left, like all that other life ain't nothin' more than a dream."

He was trembling, she saw.

"Come on then," she said gently. She didn't know what comfort to offer for his demons, which danced in his eyes with fervid glee, which fed on his fear and his shame and his horror. She had never seen Ryan with his defences stripped away – and such intimacy frightened her. So she stayed silent and followed out Daivr and the princess out of the shadows.

* * *

It hovered in their wake, drifting from darkness to darkness. Too much power protecting them now: it should have been quicker, but fear had made it slow. It remembered the last innocent, who had struggled so long in its jaws, who had so nearly overthrown it. 

It would be cautious. For such a glut, it could wait.

Their words haunted it, filtering into sense as it slowly recalled language, which it had used once. Words were chains. Words were spells and vows and punishment.

And words were knowledge.

In its slow, predatory mind, a plan formulated.

_Grand masquerade...the palace...princess...tonight_

Words were knowledge. Words were secrets. Words were the way to its prey.

The young man smiled.

* * *

Very few people had unquestioned access to the King's rooms. Roald, however, had the good fortune and the genetics to be one of them. So it was that he sauntered in, hastily brushing aside greetings and answers to the riddle he and Kally had posed, all mercifully wrong.

There were a few sideways looks as Neal accompanied him, but no one noticed Iceblood, who had slipped into invisibility with an ease that Roald knew he could never match. The signs were there for someone looking: a curious patch of space that drifted behind the pair of them, a crowd that parted without seeming to know what for. Not many among the court's flock were so observant; its finer minds had better things to do.

Unsurprising then that his father's first words were, "Roald, is there a reason why an invisible mage came in with you?"

"Er, yes," Roald said, wondering where to begin.

Luckily, he was saved the job when Neal issued a sweeping bow and said, "Your Majesty, not only is he an invisible mage, he's also five hundred years old."

There was a hallowed silence, and then King Jonathan said carefully, "Please explain, Squire Nealan, and do so in a way that makes you sound slightly less demented."

With barely a ripple in the air, Iceblood appeared. There was no trace of deference in those strange orange eyes, nothing but cool assessment as the man who might have been king and the man who was gazed at another.

"My name was once Faeleon," he said. "And I threw away my kingdom for love."

His father's mouth quirked fractionally, though there was little mirth in his voice. "I very nearly made the same mistake."

"It was no mistake," the mage breathed. "I would have given the world to Justinian if only he had let me have her!"

"Her?"

Neal bowed, sounding nervous for once. "This, sire, is where it becomes a long story."

King Jonathan nodded. His eyes were cool, ice to Faeleon's fire. "Then I think we had better get started, squire."

It was a good hour later before his father sat back, thoughts moving behind what Roald had always called his regal mask. That calm expression, offering no suggestion of his opinion, open to everything, trusting nothing.

"And you think this monster wants my daughter?"

"I think it likely. Her or the other – Andrea, is it?" Iceblood paused. "There is one sure way to capture it, if one of them will agree."

"Bait." His father's voice was flat.

"Yes."

"No. Not Kalasin. You may ask Andrea Kirisra if she is willing to help you, but I will not risk Kalasin's life on a whim." King Jonathan paused, and his eyes flicked to Roald briefly. He saw in them a certain amount of weariness, all his father would allow to slip past his guard. "In the meantime, I offer you the hospitality of the palace. You have guarded my kingdom well while you controlled the Chamber, and now you are willing to protect us once again."

Iceblood inclined his head stiffly. "Thank you. It will suffice."

In a swish of ragged cloak, he was gone. The doors slammed behind him.

"An extraordinary man," King Jonathan remarked. Roald had the feeling it was not entirely a compliment. "I would dearly like to know who took that nail from the Chamber. No friend of ours, surely."

Roald could only shrug.

"Is there anyone else who knows of this?" the King said quietly, his fingers drumming on the throne.

"No-"

"Yes," Roald cut in quickly, shooting Neal an apologetic glance. "Pip knows."

His father's eyebrows raised. "Phillippa ha Minch? Why am I not surprised?" He sighed. "A sniff of excitement and that girl's charging through the crowds to be part of it. If her father wasn't so important, I'd have made sure she was married off long ago. As it is, her tie to the throne and that infernally large dowry are too valuable to squander just to keep her out of trouble."

Pip was one of a horde of distant cousins: few noble families in Tortall weren't related to one another, and the ha Minchi had numerous links to the Contés. A distant aunt of hers had been a queen long ago; her father owned vast tracts of land and was loyal to the throne, and one of her uncles was a key strategist and commander.

"It wasn't like that," he protested. "She was just there – she came to help me..." He clamped his lips shut. He hadn't meant to reveal so much – that he had needed help, that he had been waging silent war upon the Chamber and all its fearful images.

"Very well," his father said. Maybe he remembered his own experience with the Chamber:; either way, he didn't pry. "Make sure she understands the importance of discretion." A faint smile touched his face. "Perhaps the cover of a dance. That should keep anyone from wondering who our mysterious visitor is. I will ensure the right people know – and you, son, you can keep the wrong ones from knowing."

Yes, he recognized his father the consummate politician. There was a definite expression of awe on Neal's face, touched with respect.

He was careful not to show his own emotion, which was strange and wild at the thought of dancing with Phillippa ha Minch. At first he had been intrigued because her dreams were so fierce: not of men and kisses and moonlit walks, but of fighting and freedom and traveling. And even though he was a prince, and she was in no way suitable, he found himself wondering...

Part of him shrank back from those dreams, because a girl who was so intensely independent could no longer settle for something as ordinary as a kiss.

But a dance - he thought she might settle for that. It would be enough. It had to be.

* * *

Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought... 


	13. Chapter Twelve

Afternoon, and pleased to be on time again! My exceedingly grateful thanks go out to the wonderful people who reviewed last time: thank you **Roses of Sharon, Ginastar, SarahE7191, sesquipedality, skyflyte12, Queen of Slayers, juzblue, SkateForLife, Shang Leopard, The Shang Kudarung, Fumbling for Confidence **and last but in no way, shape or form least, the fabulous **Lady Mage**.

I love hearing your thoughts: I welcome criticism with open arms, and I'm always looking for ways to improve my writing, so please fire away. Next part by March 25th.

I hope you enjoy reading,  
Ki

**A Lady's Shield Part Twelve**

Their names were a triad, never whispered in isolation once that war began.

The Phoenix. Iceblood. Justinian.

The first two were legends. But Justinian...his past was a maze, splitting in myriad rumours that turned and twisted and ended abruptly. Whatever truth lay in his core, it was well-guarded, shapeless, secret.

He loved fire, they said. When darkness fell, he was always found beside one, hands cupped above the heat. Its orange hues reflected in the strange, dark depths of his eyes; his fascination and his tool. When they brought prisoners to him, it was to the flames that he turned first: laying heat gently on their flesh, flicking the fire onto their hair, their skin, their lips, listening to the screams and the pleas with something close to ecstasy.

Under his half-closed eyes, his curling smile, his strips of cherry-red metal and his embers, men and women broke alike. So branded, they became his as surely as cattle. In the flickering light, he unmade them; when the flames were ash and only the acrid scent of smoke remained, he led them into the gloom and reforged them.

They came out changed. Shadows, men called them, not understanding how close they came to the truth. There was little pity for those shambling puppets who had no will left but his: such was war. And they were, after all, the perfect soldiers. In unison they would march, turn, stab, parry until the sound of their movements was the monstrous beat of an army.

If his followers took care not to look too long or too hard at those blank eyes, nor did they protest. The shadows would take the place of their own – it would not be their families who toppled in battle.

All of them saw what they might become if they raised their voice to Justinian. The fires always burned, his fascination and his tool.

It was war. It was necessary. It was us or them. These lies they told themselves so often that they believed.

And they clustered about him, drawn by his peculiar magnetism, later held by their own fear. He spoke softly of a better world, and let them create their own images of it. He spoke of the treachery of magic, and people forgot that treachery had existed before magic was ever born. He spoke of power, of glory, of a kingdom, and all of them assumed he meant to share these things with them.

How wrong they were.

* * *

Pip dressed slowly, grimacing at the feel of fabric on her bruises. Even silk rested too heavily on her aching body. 

Outside her rooms, the palace was restless and excited. Feet clattered on the tiles as girls ran from room to room, comparing masks and dresses and hair. Men came to call – fathers admonishing care, brothers scandalized, remarking _you're not wearing that!_ and _don't think that just because everyone's got masks on I'm won't be able to find out who you've been trysting with_, admirers declaiming poetry and lavish compliments.

Her clothes were picked for practicality as much as style. The ivory shift covered her bruises and flared over her feet in a frothy sea. If its square neckline was low, it might draw attention from the stiffness of her movements. Over it went a short-sleeved chocolate robe, Yamani-style, gleaming in the candlelight. A pair of long ivory gloves hid the bruises climbing up her arms, and she closed the robe with a thick gold ribbon that dangled at her side.

With reluctance, she pulled on court shoes the same brown as the robe. Boots would have been better, but these would force her to stand straight and if she limped, people would assume it was the fit of the shoes and not several hours of being pounded by a pair of Shang.

As a last touch, she slipped gold pins into her piled-up hair. Decorative as they were, they had been a sly gift from Uline, who was engaged to her older brother. Pip sometimes thought Uline understood her far better than Kieran, because the ends of those pins were sharp enough to serve as a blade in an emergency.

It made her feel better, too. The glamour of the court was not for her, but if she had to pretend, at least some piece of her remained defiant, fierce, prepared. After all, in the constricted dress, she could hardly kick or punch.

She took a final look at her reflection in the looking glass. A courtier stared back, trapped in the mirror like a premonition of the future that she was trying so hard to escape. Her eyes were frightened. Pip didn't know herself in that moment.

Then she prodded a bruise, and the flare of pain recalled her. No matter how she looked, she wasn't a biddable child. She was going to be Shang, and run free of all these trappings.

A knock startled her. Slowly, she became aware that the noise outside had stopped.

She opened the door onto Davir sin Porphyros, lounging like a tiger against the opposite wall. His smile was devilish, a match for his clothing: top to toe in black, except for the lurid scarlet embroidery that was bright as blood on his coat arms. He looked deadly and exotic and feral.

A glance at the corridor confirmed that the nobles were watching him as if he was some sort of lunatic. Not, perhaps, an unwise assumption given that she could see the tips of curved Carthaki swords protruding from his back like deadly wings. How on earth he was managing to pull off_lounging_ with rigid metal strapped to his spine, she didn't know.

"I'm not sure if you're planning to escort me or kill me," she remarked.

"An easy choice," he observed with wry gallantry. "If only because you would make killing such damnably hard work."

She suppressed a smile. "Are the swords just for decoration?"

He took a step forward, closing out the eavesdropping courtiers. "In truth, I feel naked without a weapon. And I need to carry them tonight." A brief frown marred him. "If it deters conversation with fools, so much the better."

She collected her mask from the table, an ivory confection of lace and feathers, dusted with gold embroidery. "Can I borrow one?"

"You have far crueller weapons in your arsenal." He took her in with a sweeping glance. "I don't doubt you're capable of being as devastating as you look."

She laughed. For all his husky, intimate tone, she found Davir unthreatening. It was as much an act as hers. "Tell me you know how to hold a conversation without flirting."

"I know. I just find it dull - unlike you. Now, shall we go and enliven this tedious affair?"

The Carthaki and the troublemaker. If she had to be the black sheep of the court, she supposed they were due some fresh gossip. "I can't think of anything I'd rather do."

He put on his own mask, a scarlet domino that was lurid against his dark skin. His voice was a purr. "How unimaginative."

With a roll of her eyes, she took his arm and let him lead her away. "Save it for the princess. She appreciates that kind of thing."

For a moment, she caught a glimpse of the solemnity she had seen on the practice yard. "Forgive me. You looked so like a little court siren I forgot you weren't one. I'll behave."

She snorted. "No, you won't. But don't worry, I'm practiced at ignoring obnoxious men."

His low chuckle accompanied them all the way to the ball.

* * *

"What is that?" Roald yelped as his sister crashed into his rooms without knocking. 

She paused and smoothed a hand over her stomach. "Do you like it, brother dear?"

"No," he said flatly. "When Father sees you-"

She held a glittering blue mask over her face. Unlike most, it was full-face, hiding her identity completely. "He won't even recognise me."

What was wrong with her? All evening she had been out of sorts, edgy and electric, like a bird battering against the bars of its cage. He was used to her anger, but this was something more.

"It's not about recognising you," Roald said patiently. "You can't wear that."

She glanced down, a satisfied smile playing about her mouth. But she was oddly pale. "I can."

"You look like...like...Kally, you look like a whore, by all the gods!"

The dress – if it could be called that – was gold and so thin it was close to translucent. He averted his eyes, embarrassed for her. The shape of her body was clear, hints of too-intimate detail showing – the juncture of her thighs, the ridges of her ribs, not enough hidden by the unleashed black tumble of her hair. It was madness.

Her smile froze in place. "And isn't that what I am?" she demanded angrily. "Father has sold me to the emperor. And maybe Kaddar paid in peace and not coin, but I am sold as surely as if he filled our coffers!"

Roald put his fingers to his temples and prayed to any god listening for aid. "Is that really what you think?" he said wearily. "Because if it is, you might as well spread your legs on a street corner. At least someone will get some pleasure from your company, because gods know Kaddar and Carthak won't."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she hissed.

"You don't have any idea, do you?" he snapped back. "Don't you realise how fragile we are? The Scanrans are pressing on the border in the North. Tusaine smiles while it slides a knife into our back. The Copper Isles are still a hotbed for rebels and they possess some of the strongest mages there are. Mother and Father have fought for years to hold the K'mir and the Bahzir and the North to them, but it could all slide into chaos if we aren't careful. Carthak can be our greatest ally – or our worst enemy. And if you won't even try to make this marriage work, Kally, you'll destroy two countries with a sweep of your hand."

Her shoulders sagged. He was surprised to see her blinking back tears. "I never wanted this."

"I know," he said quietly. "But that's the price. We've lived our whole lives in privilege. Now we have to face up to our responsibilities. Do you think I like any more than you do?"

"And what about the people who need us here?" she said, her voice so thin and pitiful. "What about the poor and the destitute and ones that Mother and Father don't see? I could make a difference, Roald. There's so much to do here."

He blinked. This wasn't a side of his sister he had ever seen. And then he remembered what a healer she was, the battles she had seen even as a child. "What about the poor and the destitute in Carthak?" he said softly. "What about the slaves?"

Her lips twisted. He knew the idea repulsed her. "What can I do?"

"Now, nothing. As the Empress of Carthak? A lot. Maybe everything."

Comprehension gleamed in her eyes – and something else, a longing so fierce that he saw her for a moment not as his spoiled sister, but as a young woman, afraid, on the brink of adulthood and clinging to her adolescence to try and keep her future from overwhelming her.

"I wanted to be a page," she said softly. "I wanted to be a hero and do great deeds."

"You still can," he answered. "Not all the great deeds are done in battle, Kally."

She sniffed, and flicked away a few escaped tears irritably. "I doubt many are done in a marriage bed."

"Tell Mother that," he pointed out with a crooked smile.

"Urgh. I'd rather not think about it." She shuddered. "I still don't want to do it, Roald. If Kaddar is anything like that awful bodyguard he's sent..."

Roald hadn't had enough contact with Davir sin Porphyros yet to decide if he liked him, but he had to admire his style. "Then he'll be the only man you've ever met who can shut you up," he said.

She glared at him.

"Take off that appalling dress," he pleaded.

Stubbornness seeped into her face. The brat was back, and Roald knew there would be no moving her now. She gave a little twirl. "If Daddy's going to marry me off, I want my fun before I go."

"You'll get caught."

She gave a sudden, wicked giggle. "No I won't."

That didn't bode well. "What do you mean?"

Her eyes glittered, hard blue chips. "Wait and see, brother dear. Wait and see."

* * *

The herald looked a little nervous at the sight of Davir, but he swung open the doors. There were no announcements of their names – it was, after all, a masked ball, and the revelation would not come until the end of the evening. 

Still, she didn't doubt almost everyone guessed who he was with that prowling walk, and she glimpsed Kieran under his sober grey mask, looking disapproving. He at least recognised her.

Once at the foot of the stairs, they went to the throne to make their obeisance. She saw the surprise in Davir's eyes as she executed an elaborate curtsey. As if in competition, he swept the blades off his back and laid them at the king's feet in a dramatic gesture.

"I trust you will have no need of swords here," the king remarked. Quietly, he added, "Some might take it as an insult, Kyrios."

"Others would take it as fealty," Davir said in a voice just as low. "From one ally to another."

"Be glad that I am one such," King Jonathan said and dismissed them with a flick of his fingers. Davir sheathed the swords, ignoring those who edged back from him.

"How prettily you submit," he murmured as they walked away.

"You don't have to sound so shocked," she remarked sourly, accepting his outstretched hand with proper, if perfunctory, grace. "You make quite a gilded lily yourself."

"Perhaps. But I'm hard pressed to know whether there's more of the flower or the metal about you this evening."

The music struck up. As he swung her into the steps of the first dance, she trod on his foot.

"I take that back," he muttered. "Definitely the metal."

She gave him her best courtier's smile, all secrets and dazzle. "And don't you forget it."

His eyes narrowed. "Why? Are you afraid of what will happen?"

Suddenly he was closer, his proximity a challenge. Unable to conjure an answer, she found herself retreating; but she was held within the formal cage of the dance, his hand on her waist a manacle. So intimate, the steps had taken on more meaning than mere motion.

Forward, his hips brushing hers. Sideways, she leaning back in the too-small space that he dictated. She could not help but be aware of his smouldering gaze intent on her, his grip, of the insubstantiality of the air and etiquette which divided them. Back, she forced to trust him to guide her into space, safety, silence.

Forward, sideways, back. The whole world was enclosed by three steps and his arms. Panic struck her.

Quick as he was, Davir did not miss that.

"Yes," he said with a gentleness she would not have expected, and suddenly the distance between them was stale and staid once again. "You are afraid, aren't you?"

She didn't want to tell him. Pip wasn't even sure it was something she could vocalize. And yet...and yet he had seen her vulnerability and stepped back, and such compassion was more than she had expected. If she could trust anyone, she felt it was this strange Carthaki, who saw so keenly, who kept his secrets so well.

"Yes," she admitted. "You can't really understand what it means to be a noblewoman. The expectation that you will marry and have children is immense. Any title I hold will belong to my husband – it will be his land, his people, his reputation which affects mine."

"Even in Tortall?" he said softly. "Your women are as notorious as your men. The Lioness, your lady Queen, the Wildmage, even the young girl who thinks to become the second lady knight. None of them ride upon the reputation of men."

"They are the exceptions, not the rule," she answered grimly. "And I'm sure you've heard the nastier pieces of gossip that accompany their names."

"Of course. But only fools take gossip for truth."

"Then fools aplenty fill the land." They spoke in low voices, soft enough, she supposed, that some would take it for lovers' chat. "Their Majesties are trying to change things – but if you think that's a swift or an easy process, you are much mistaken, Davir."

"I have seen the opposition my Emperor faces," he replied. "I know it is neither. But I didn't realize that things were as difficult here." He gave a soft chuckle. "Even I have been beguiled by the dream of Tortall, free and mighty and just."

"So yes," she said quietly, quickly, "I am afraid. As long as I dress in men's clothes and tussle with Shang, I keep myself free. But when I wear silks and make pretty conversation and dance away the night, I become what I have no desire to be – and if I do it too often, word will reach my father and he will think it's time I was wed. I have no wish for a husband."

"But what if you should lose your heart and find one?" he enquired dryly.

"What man would want me?" she demanded. "I have no skills in running a household. My reputation is hardly savoury - most of my friends are young men in the King's service. Who'd want a wife like me?"

His teeth gleamed. "I suspect you might be surprised. There are men who want a woman with more arts to her than those of house and bed."

She flushed, and he laughed, a soft, low sound that made heads turn.

"Don't tell me I've shocked you," Davir teased. "Or is it just that you don't think of such things here?"

"Generally not in the middle of a crowded room," she said tartly, which only made him laugh harder.

"I wouldn't fear too much if I were you," he told her when he had breath enough to speak. "That reputation you have created so painstakingly makes an excellent shield, and I doubt that I have harmed your cause."

She snorted. "You're even less popular than I am."

"Then we can be a pair of glittering pariahs," he declared, and swung her into a spin that was no part of the dance. "Well, I can glitter. You can be a pariah."

She aimed a heel at his foot, but he slid aside. Then she realised the music had stopped, and people were starting to stare. She let Davir lead her off the floor, and for good measure, gave him a simpering smile. If people thought she was infatuated, so much the better.

He caught her doing it, and gave her an amused look. "Coward."

"It's good sense, not cowardice," she hissed back.

"Only up to a point. Be who you are, and let that be your shield if you will, but don't pretend to be something you're not. And if you had the slightest attraction to me – not that I'd blame you, who wouldn't? – you wouldn't be nearly so forthright with me."

His words stung. "I have to play the game, Davir. As long as I pretend to fit in now and again they let me have my strange little ways. They think I'll grow out of it."

"And instead you are growing into something else entirely." His gaze was pensive. "Hard to say what yet. Something dangerous, I think. I knew another girl who wanted a warrior's life. It devoured her. She is nothing more than that now."

A brief sadness touched his eyes. She remembered what he had said on the practice court. "The Stormwing?"

"The same. Forgive me if I am a little wary of such ambition." He picked up a glass from a serving page with a quiet thank you. "I happen to like Phillippa ha Minch as she is. I hope she will become a good friend, and not merely a good killer."

He drained the wine, oblivious to the censorious stares. She could not help but see the rough pain in his face. Before she could say anything, he had given her his roguish smile, as good a mask as the one shielding his eyes.

"As the guest of honour, I should make my presence felt. Thank you for the dance, Pip."

With that, he was gone. But the pain in his voice lingered with her, harsh, vivid. For the first time, she glimpsed him as a young man alone in a strange country, unsure of anything but the need for disguise. For tonight, he was one actor among many. Come morning, he would be exposed once more – and then, she thought he would need all the friends he could find.

She hoped to be one of them. That much she could do for him.

* * *

Roald headed straight for his friends when he entered the hall. Masks or not, there was no mistaking Neal rhapsodising wildly over a beautiful woman dressed top to toe in scarlet, or Merric's bright hair. 

For a moment he stopped: over by the throne, his sister was stood, demure as could be in a purple dress nothing like the gauzy confection she'd shown off to him earlier. Her mocking smile was unmistakable under a half-mask as she chatted to their father. It even looked like a passably civil conversation.

Thanks the gods. She had come to her senses. It wouldn't last, but maybe he wouldn't have to worry about her doing something stupid tonight.

With relief, he joined his friends.

"That's not Lady Maria," he informed Neal just as the squire ended a particularly involved analogy.

Neal ground to a halt. "It isn't?" His eyes narrowed. "Is that you, Roald?"

He gave a small nod. His mask hid his entire face, a plain midnight blue with rudimentary holes for eyes and mouth. Not, in other words, something a prince would be expected to wear. There were enough tall men with black hair for him to have a shred of anonymity – indeed, he realised with glee, he could see several men of that type being harried by some of his less bright admirers. "Keep your voice down. I'm aiming to be bothered as little as possible. And no, that definitely isn't Lady Maria."

Neal squinted at the woman. "I'm sure..."

"No. That's her cousin," Roald subtly gestured at the woman locked into an embrace in a dim corner. "_That's_ Lady Maria."

"With Garvey?" sputtered Neal. "That...that...oaf?"

"That oaf," Roald agreed solemnly. "What did you think all those noises coming from his room were?"

Neal grimaced. His dun green mask bared his cheeks but covered his long nose, making him look like a rather odd dragon. "A slightly more...individual activity. I had no idea there was a woman with such terrible taste."

Roald, who was fed a constant stream of court gossip by Kally when she wasn't caught up in a fury, snorted. "There's a reason the other ladies call Lady Maria the good time girl."

After all, the other court ladies made promises. Lady Maria kept them.

"I...thought that was because she knew how to have a good time," Neal said weakly.

"More because a lot of other people know how to have her," Roald said delicately.

He paid attention to the room for the first time. The court was a glorious riot of colour. Glass clinked, conversation hummed and couples swept the dance floor in graceful patterns. His gaze moved from person to person, and he told himself that he was looking for Pip because she needed to know about Iceblood: that was all, nothing more-

And then he caught a glimpse of diaphanous gold. Inwardly, Roald groaned.

Kally was gone from the throne. Suddenly he saw the shape of her plan. It was madness though – eventually someone would realise that the girl in the golden dress was-

Gold gleamed on the other side of the room. What…?

And again – it seemed gold was everywhere in the crowd, and Roald blinked as he saw not one but six girls slithering through bodies in those sheer, slight dresses. Gasps rose, murmurs of appreciation and condemnation mingling. All of them, he saw, had dyed their hair black.

Clever, he had to admit. Very clever. The dresses were barely on the side of acceptance. And while his father would never have allowed Kalasin to wear such garments, there were other parents in the court who would – ambitious parents, who understand what drove young men. In a gaggle, it was impossible to tell who the girls were, and doubtless Kalasin would reappear from time to time in her respectable dress. Their father merely looked irritated, but said nothing.

"Mithros bright," breathed Neal. "What have we done to deserve this?"

"I don't know," Seaver muttered. "But it must have been good."

The girls split, drifting like sylphs – and one approached them. Roald tensed, hoping his disguise hadn't been punctured.

"Have you seen the prince, squires?" she asked coyly. "I wanted to try his riddle."

Behind her, Roald glared at them all pointedly.

"Not yet," Seaver piped up, flushing, his eyes flicking about her as if he wasn't sure where to look. "But why don't you wait with us?"

"That's a very unusual dress," Merric put in. "Very, um..."

She giggled. "Well-made?" she said slyly.

"Yes," the redhead said hastily. "That's exactly what I was thinking."

Roald quietly slipped away. No one, he was amazed to see, took the slightest bit of notice of him. For the first time in his life, he felt truly ordinary. And it was a dizzying feeling – he could go anywhere, be anything, do whatever he wanted. There were no politics, no princesses, no duty, no expectations underneath the mask.

He was just a boy in a crowd. And he was free.

Then he saw her. Pip, watching the masses. He was sure it was her: something in the way she stood, the tilt of her head. In her ivory and gold, she was subtle, soft, ethereal, and he knew that he didn't want to see her because of Iceblood or duty – he wanted to hold her close-

And just for a few moments, just for a dance, why couldn't he?

* * *

The nameless wanderer slid into the palace easily as an eel. He took face after face; servants, guards, men, women. Haste made him merciful – most he didn't even need to dispose of. But the last was crucial, and so he hid the noble's body in a dark garden, thrusting him among the thornbushes. 

In the stolen clothes and the stolen face, he was safe. A signet ring would prove his identity, as would the few crucial facts he had extracted from the man before he killed him.

He. The nameless wanderer licked the last specks of blood from his lips. Old memories crept back to him, of other times when had worn a human face. Speech was rusty in his throat, but he recalled enough of it to mimic his victim's voice should any be able to recognise him beneath the mask.

Attired and equipped, he made his way back into the palace and followed the feel of that bright, young spark until he came to the hall and the cluttered gathering.

The herald didn't give him more than a glance. Top to toe, his disguise was impeccable, and the nameless wanderer stepped into the hall, hungry for Princess Kalasin. In that, he was not alone.

* * *

Neal was making his way over the tables stacked with food when a hand closed on his arm. Startled, he turned to see a tall, thin figure that he only recognised by virtue of the eyes burning out from the mask. 

"Are you enjoying yourself?" he said weakly.

Iceblood stared back. "I am not here for enjoyment."

Numair Salmalin came hustling through the crowds, unmistakable as he had neglected to wear a mask. Perhaps he didn't consider it important. "That invisibility spell is remarkable," he said, enthusiasm bright in his face. "An Old Thak variant, surely?"

Iceblood turned and stared at him. If Numair noticed the hostility pouring from him, he ignored it. "Not remarkable enough as you followed me."

Not ignoring it, Neal realised as he saw the tension in Numair's hands. Treading carefully about it. "I find your magic extremely intriguing. It's so...raw. You seem to perform your magic by reflex rather than following any kind of pattern or structure."

"Magic was new in my time," the man said stiffly. It was clear he had little interest in the conversation. "We had no books to teach us."

"Indeed," agreed Numair. Neal recognised the same concentration the mage had when he was in the midst of particularly complex problem. "I have wondered if by confining the Gift to such regimes we weaken it. Some of the most powerful magic I have seen has been done by what we would consider untrained mages."

At another time, Neal would have joined in the discussion with gusto. It was a common debate among healers and his father was a leading proponent of new methods. Right now, though, he had the feeling Iceblood was considering putting some of his untrained magic to use.

"How is it that you execute your magic, precisely?" Numair enquired, guileless.

Iceblood's voice was cool. "I think very hard about the problem and I find a way to make it disappear."

"Not very subtle," the mage commented, and Neal had to hide a grin. "Do you use marks, gestures, tools?"

"Whatever is to hand. And I prefer silence." He bared a mirthless smile. "Otherwise I can react quite...violently."

"Oh, I wouldn't recommend that here," Numair said quite cheerfully. "There are all kinds of spells against hostile magic woven into the palace."

"I am aware of it. I was one of them."

"Oh yes! We must discuss the working you performed to achieve _that_," the mage said with such boyish excitement that the years were stripped from him. "Wonderful, I was trying to think how I'd manage it myself-"

Iceblood's patience snapped. He leaned forward, and his voice was a growl. "Then think about it elsewhere. I am not in the mood to make small chat about magic."

Numair fell silent. In those calm eyes, Neal could see that vast intelligence, assessing, measuring, deciding, and he knew that if Numair thought Iceblood was a threat to the kingdom, Tortall would not hesitate to deal with him.

But he wouldn't want to see the fallout. No matter that Iceblood's magic was of an older and cruder kind than theirs – power billowed out from him like steam, and no mage could miss it.

"Of course," he said finally, and whatever his decision, Neal could not determine it. "I'm sure you're still recuperating. It is a grim task you have ahead of you, but you'll find it easier with our aid."

"I will ask for your aid when I need it."

Neal wondered if now was the time to mention that the last man who had treated Numair Salmalin with copious disrespect had found himself taking root.

"I look forward to it," Numair replied, and left them to it.

"A dangerous man," Iceblood murmured, and Neal realised that he was not as great a fool as he seemed. "I hope he does not put himself in my way."

"I wouldn't put yourself in his," Neal offered, a touch timidly.

Those extraordinary eyes turned on him, the deep orange of sunset. "I will not suffer anyone to stop me recapturing that monster."

He finally voiced the thought that had been bothering him about the whole story. "But it was only being what it was made to be. They're mindless beasts, aren't they?"

His mouth twisted under the dark grey mask. "Not as mindless as you seem to think. And regardless of their nature, if a beast is rabid, you don't suffer it to live. Now. Tell me about that girl."

Neal was startled to find the mage gesturing at Pip, who was quietly talking to her brother. "Pip?"

"Is that her name?"

"Phillippa ha Minch," Neal said, confused. Whatever the mage wanted with her, it made him uneasy. "Why are you asking?"

"An intriguing young woman."

"Have...you met her?"

The mage fell silent. And then he said quite softly, "Once. Briefly. I knew someone much like her. They are very alike in certain ways. In certain wants."

Neal had no doubt he was talking about the Phoenix, but...but Pip and the Shang Phoenix? They were nothing alike from what fragments of the tales he remembered. And...wait, _certain wants_?

"Pip wants to be Shang?" he hissed. "That's impossible!"

"Dreams often are."

Things clicked into place. The long hours she spent with the Wildcat and the Horse. Her adeptness with weapons, her ability to put him in a headlock that was as unbreakable as it was embarrassing – those odd bruises that she sometimes sported...

A wave of compassion swept him.

Oh, Pip, he thought. Surely you know that they'll never take you. You're too old and you're a noble to boot. Is that why you spend so much time with them, hoping that they'll take you despite it all? If they teach you, it's from pity or because they think any training is good for you, not because they honestly believe you'll be Shang.

He had often heard her scorn a noble lady's life. He hadn't realised it was more than words. He hadn't understood how trapped she must feel.

He was her friend, her sparring partner: he owed it to her to tell her what madness it was.

But as he saw her laughing there, bright, charming, he couldn't bear to do it that night.

Tomorrow, Neal promised himself. Tomorrow I'll talk to her.

"She isn't the Phoenix," he ventured cautiously.

"I am aware of it." His voice was flat, harsh.

"Then...what do you want with her?"

He thought it might have been a question too far as the mage's eyes bored into him. Then his mouth twisted, as if he'd tasted something sour, and Iceblood said, "I have seen the hearts of everyone who dared pass into the chamber, who touched its doors, who dreamed of it. Countless hearts, countless fears. Not one of them ever wondered what I was or where I came from. But she did. She saw me, she called me forth. And she was not afraid."

"That sounds like Pip," Neal said glumly.

"She wasn't afraid," Iceblood murmured, and there was wonder in his voice. And as those inhuman eyes rested on Pip, Neal couldn't help but fear for her.

Someone had to: she didn't have the sense to do it herself.

* * *

Andrea had long ago given up trying to talk Ryan out of whatever melancholy had gripped him. While he morosely did card tricks over and over, she sat on the floor in his room and puzzled her way through one of the scrolls Master Salmalin had given them. The string in front of her was hopelessly tangled: it was her job to untangle it. 

Ryan shuffled the cards again. Inch by inch, as she gritted her teeth and forced her magic to obey, the third knot loosened-

A knock distracted her; the string flopped onto the table.

"Rats," she muttered.

"Rats?" Ryan said dourly as he got up to answer it. "I taught ye better words than that, lass."

"And the situation doesn't need them," she said stubbornly. "Who-"

She was cut of by Ryan's wild whoop. "Kel!"

Andrea smiled shyly at the stocky girl who limped in. As usual, Kel's face bore the hallmarks of a life on the road; grime on her cheek, a fading bruise on her forehead. Her hazel eyes were steady and friendly, and she gave Andrea a brief grin before turning most of her attention back to Ryan. "Surprise."

"I thought ye weren't back for days yet!"

For the first time, Ryan looked like himself. His smile was full of joy, and as soon as the door closed, he pulled Kel into a hug.

Quietly, Andrea gathered up the scrolls and the string. She was one of the few people who knew that Keladry of Mindelan and Ryan Talver were more than friends – were tentatively mapping out a shy, clumsy and unexpectedly sweet relationship. It was a close secret. It would have tarnished Kel's reputation beyond repair if people had known: they could just about accept that the unconventional knight would become friends with the mage she'd met on an adventure. Any more was unthinkable.

"We weren't supposed to be," confessed Kel. "You won't believe what's happened. I can't tell you yet – not until my lord of Goldenlake's let the king know, but...but..."

"But you feel an adventure coming on?" Ryan prompted.

She grimaced. "Maybe."

"Well, until it gets here, ye can sit down an' tell me how much you missed me," ordered Ryan.

"Who says I did?" Kel said slyly.

"Still a terrible liar, lass."

That was the last Andrea heard: she left them to it. She could read her scroll in the library, after all. She ignored the little pang of loneliness – the one that said she had no one to hug, to kiss, to argue with. She had her magic. She had her life. That was more than she expected six months ago.

And grimly, she tried not to listen to the little voice that whispered those things were no longer enough.

* * *

Pip thanked the man as he led them away from the dancers, and leaned back against the wall with a sigh that was equal parts fatigue and relief. She'd danced with half a dozen men already. Some had no idea who she was; others knew but felt safe in their anonymity; still others probably knew and didn't care. 

Under the dim lights and the multitude of masks, the court had become strangers to one another. She could recognise a few people – their majesties, of course, Numair Salmalin, Neal by his height and his voice, Merric, her brother and Uline, a few other notables or people with mannerisms too unique or innate to hide. But most of them were a mystery.

"Hello Pip."

She stared at the man in front of her. She knew that voice, she did. "You're going to have to tell me who you are."

His laugh was soft, a little husky. "Am I? I thought the whole point of the ball was that you don't know."

"Yes, apparently it's supposed to be romantic," she said.

"Apparently?"

She shrugged. "It's easy to find romance in a stranger. Finding it in someone you know is much harder."

Even the most basic of his features were hidden behind that mask. Black hair: that was all. Dozens of men had black hair. "What makes you think you know me?"

"Your voice," she said with certainty. "I recognise it. I know it. But don't worry, I'm not looking for romance with you."

"Then how about a dance instead?" he said.

She blinked. Most people would have left. "My feet are hurting."

"Then take off your shoes," he suggested dryly. "Since when did you start being so impractical?"

Not just someone she knew, then: someone who knew her. Someone whose style she liked. For the first time since she'd come in, Pip smiled. "Only if you will."

"Done."

She stared at him. Surely he wouldn't do it. She kicked off a shoe, as much as challenge as a gauntlet thrown on the ground. With something that sounded like smothered laughter, the man took off his own boots – he held out his hand, the pair of them in their finery with feet bare on the cold flagstones, and he a stranger that might not prove to be so.

There didn't seem much else to do except take his hand and hope.

* * *

"Isn't that your friend?" Kalasin remarked breezily to Merric. She had danced with all of Roald's friends at least once. No matter what that Carthaki thought, she wasn't a pet to be tamed or trained. And while she still had the power to choose, she would. She'd choose every last one of the men in here if it would make people understand that she wasn't just a puppet. 

Her thoughts couldn't help but return to Ryan Talver and the scorn in his face when he spoke to her.

Not a puppet. Not just a spoilt little rich girl. No matter what he thought, what any of them thought.

I don't want to go to Carthak, but I don't have any choice. What choices have I ever had? I did what father wanted, what mother wanted, and I suppose I'll be expected to do what my husband wants too.

And no one seems to care what I want.

So she danced and she chattered and she didn't refuse anyone who asked for her hand or for her time. No one had been bold enough to ask for a kiss yet, but if they did, she'd offered up her mouth like cherries to them to be devoured; ultimately, she supposed, to spit out the stone of her, the hard core that knew she would have face her duty eventually.

Just not yet. Not yet.

And so when the tall stranger asked her to dance, and she saw the flashing signet ring on his finger and recognised the young lord of Vale Runstead, one of the most eligible bachelors at the court, why would she refuse?

And why, when he asked for a moment in the shadows, a promise of a kiss, would she do anything but let him guide her outside and away from the gathering?

* * *

Pip and the man danced for three songs without stopping, and talked as ceaselessly as they moved. They argued over philosophers and strategists, over the merits of current songs and old stories, and the cadence of his voice nagged at her maddeningly. 

I know you.

"Tell me who you are?" she demanded.

"No."

"Why not?"

She liked his quiet laugh, liked the way he drew her just a little closer with each dance. "Because it's fun."

And she couldn't deny that. It was fun. It was the most fun she had had in a long time. When at last the music stopped, they drifted back to the courtiers stood around the hall.

The king moved into the space: his charisma was such that he could fill such a vast space, and unmasked, his blue eyes seemed to see each of them, bright as lightning.

"Most of you have met Kyrios Davir sin Porphyros," he said, his voice carrying easily. "For those of you who have not, he is a trusted confidante of Emperor Kaddar in Carthak and it is my hope that he will become as true and steadfast an ally to us as he is to the Emperor, who shares our ideals and our goals. I trust him with my life, and more importantly, with that of my daughter Kalasin, who he has come to guard."

He gestured. Princess Kalasin curtsied in her purple gown but did not take off her mask.

Beside her. Pip heard the man make a noise: soft, puzzled.

"I bid you make him welcome to our court. Although we are two very different countries, it is my hope that we can embrace our differences and use them to strengthen one another, not to divide us. And in token of this truth – that not all that is strange is fearful - Kyrios Davir has kindly agreed to show us an ancient art of his people: Carthaki sword dancing."

Suddenly Pip understood just why Davir was wearing those monstrous swords – and what a clever coup this was. What better way for the king to show he trusted Davir, letting him walk in armed: what better way for Davir to show how lethal he was as a bodyguard before the whole court?

"Clever," she breathed. "Very clever."

"Have you ever seen this?" the man beside her said softly.

"No. You?"

"Never. I've heard of it, though. Not many of the nobility are trained to it anymore, but they knife-dance in the streets, and it's supposed to be the highest skill any warrior there can attain."

Davir strolled into the middle of the room with a bow to the king on his way. There was silence, then the Carthaki gave the musicians a little nod. One raised a violin – a long harsh note sounded-

And a woman strode onto the empty floor. "Dancing again, Davy? I thought you'd forgotten how."

Pip had never seen anyone quite like her. Her face was fierce and hawkish, her eyes bold, black, fathomless. Her hair was so pale that Pip thought it was blond at first, but then she saw that it was grey – that something had stolen the colour from her hair, left age on her like a stain. Her clothes were worn, but like Davir, two swords showed above her back.

She glimpsed Raoul of Goldenlake striding over to the king, taking him aside and whispering quietly. But it seemed irrelevant compared to the woman, who stood there as if she owned the palace and everyone in it.

Davir's grin was savage, surprise fading quickly from him. "Some things are not so easily forgotten, Eve."

"Like names?" she said coldly. Her arm was bandaged and there was a slight unevenness to her stance, as if she favoured her left leg. A split in her lip was dark with blood, dark as her eyes. "I have another now."

"The Stormwing," he said. "Very fitting. You too leave carrion in your wake."

"Such is justice. It too dances with swords."

His voice was glacial. "Such is murder."

A susurrus of excitement filled the air. All attention was riveted on the pair of them now.

The Shang Stormwing, Pip thought, drinking her in. She isn't so much older than me, but she looks so grim.

"You were always outspoken, Davy. Can you back up those words? Dance with me again and let's find out who is better."

He gazed at her, his face unreadable. And then he glanced at the musicians, his voice sharp as broken glass as he said, "Play."

The silence was absolute – and then that note rose up on the air again, harsh, quivering, poised. Then the violins launched into a lashing, fierce tune full of minors and swooning notes, all overridden by the fast, tapping beat.

Swords flashed: they circled one another, moving in ever-diminishing spirals like a pair of predators. Pip found she was holding her breath – close, closer they moved, and suddenly the swords clashed – sparks flew, blue, glittering, and the pair of them were dancing in and out of a cage of metal.

It truly was a dance she saw, not a fight – sometimes they stepped into one another, bodies meeting, brushing, darting away to be replaced by steel. The steps were formalised, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, always precise and sharp. The passion in it took her breath away – no mistaking the ferocity in both faces, parted lips, blazing eyes, sparks and metal raining down upon them.

Faster and faster it moved – until they were a blur, until she was clutching the hand of them an beside her, wrapped up in their savagery, their beauty. Steel rang in time with the music, their feet stamped and slid, the clash of swords drowned out the music-

And with a clatter, Davir's swords were torn from his hands, skidding across the floor as her blades crossed at his throat.

People cried out – as the music crashed to a halt, Pip found herself gasping for air, astonished.

The Shang Stormwing smiled. "Still me, Davy."

"The better swordsman, perhaps," he said. "But that's all, Eve."

She said nothing – Pip thought for a hideous moment that she would sweep her blades outwards and sever his head, but the woman stepped back abruptly. The room breathed again: hubbub rose instantly, frantic, excited, bewildered.

"That was terrifying," the man beside her said.

"That was amazing," she breathed, her eyes aglow. "I've never seen anyone fight like that."

_That_ is what I want to be. That creature - making every move a step to a dance, being beautiful by vritue of skill, not because of the masks I wear or the lies I indulge. Look at her - she doesn't need anyone. The world is at her feet.

The man sighed. "Trust you."

That voice! She nearly had it for a moment, but it slipped away for, her and she glared at his masked face in frustration. "Do you?"

He paused, then took her hand and said quite quietly. "Yes. Of course. And I'd like to think you can trust me."

And suddenly she did know that voice – quiet, intense, subtle. Easy to mistake, because Prince Roald wasn't flamboyant or blatant, didn't feel the need to force his presence onto a room. People mistook that for weakness or shyness: she thought it was merely different qualities that mattered to him. Trust. Fairness. Deliberation.

He had seen her deepest desire, her secret, and kept it.

She smiled. "I do."

"Enough to come with me?"

"Where?"

"Somewhere," he said innocently, and she heard the amusement in his voice. She felt oddly unreal, as if this was someone else's life, someone else's night.

In a room of strangers, he was familiar and safe, and yet neither of those things. When they had danced, she had felt wild, free, and that he had understood both of those feelings. That wasn't the Roald she knew – who kicked off his shoes and danced barefoot in the court, who defended his opinions as passionately as if life and death depended on them.

And she remembered what she had seen in the Chamber of the Ordeal: the mage whispering softly _you don't even know your own heart_.

Maybe you do know. Maybe it's the rest of us who don't know.

Suddenly she was tired of masks, tried of the court and all its games. She wanted to be herself again, and with him, she could be.

"All right," she conceded. "But it had better be good."

"I think I can manage that," he said, and she followed him out into the moonlight and the darkness, neither knowing what else waited there; had waited there for hundreds of years, the nameless wanderer, ready to reclaim its power.

* * *

Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought. 


	14. Chapter Thirteen

Evening all - hope everyone had a good Easter, and in the spirit of the season, here is a chapter filled ith fluffy bunnies and cute chicks. Okay, no fluffy bunnies. A couple of cute chicks.

Huge thanks to the awesome and amazing people who reviewed last time round - thank you **SkateForLife, Merkaba7734, SarahE7191, Shang Leopard, Bex Drake **(Thank you! I had enormous fun writing it and cackling evilly over it.), **Echo Chambers, Queen of Slayers, LadyReaderOfBooks, The Shang Kudarung, GinaStar **and last (save the best, eh?) **crouchingbunny**. Thank you so much - I loved hearing what you thought.

As you can probbly tell, all comment, criticisms, thoughts and opinions are much adored. You can get hold of my by PM, email or via FFN. I promise not to cry (except perhaps with joy).

I hope you enjoy reading! Next part by April 12th...

Ki

**A Lady's Shield Part Thirteen**

Even in a land divided by war, there were areas untouched by it. Small places, perhaps, where people refused to hear the news and refused to take sides. They labelled their wilful blindness impartiality, neutrality, caution.

And so it was that under their unseeing eyes, shadows spread into their homes.

A dark night, this, made all the darker by the small fires which glistened under the cracks of doors and the slats of shutters. The feeble light only made the surrounding darkness thicker and more complete. The sound of logs crunched by fire drowned out footsteps and whispers.

In such a night, even a king might walk unnoticed.

So it was that they first met, shadows picking one another out from the gloom. The Shang could always move as softly as a breath of air, and they came to these blind spots in their pairs and alone, recognising other faces with caution. To the last, they were nobles who resented the new order that Iceblood represented; who resented the choice that the Phoenix had made for them.

Words were traded, first carefully, then openly.

It was clear that while the Phoenix lived, they were tied to Iceblood. Such was her reputation that they dared not defy her or the rest of the Shang Circle. Nor, perhaps, were they so lost to honour as to wish her dead.

While she lived...

They dissipated from such meetings like ripples in still water, moving outwards, now searching for a solution.

Then came another meeting and another dark night. While the wind plucked at their cloaks like a petulant child, they debated, discussed, went in the same endless circles.

The Phoenix could not live.

They would not kill her.

And in that night where a king might walk unnoticed, one came to them; he strode amongst them without fear and flung off his cloak. With his silky words, Justinian swayed them. It would barely be betrayal; they need only tell him a little, a very little, and he would do the rest. His clockwork soldiers came with him, and in their empty eyes the Shang saw what they would become if they did not help him and he still won.

He wooed them with words; he frightened them with horrors. In love and fear, they came to him, charmed, greedy, defiant.

Just a little. Just a very little. It seemed so simple. Hardly a price at all. And with it would come the guarantee of their position and privileges, their lands, their retainers, their wealth. Just a little.

Just a life.

* * *

There were kisses, cuddles, and wrestling. Not something in the romantic arsenal of many relationships, but Ryan had always considered Kel's ability to lock his elbows behind his back a useful asset, if only because it meant she could do the same to anyone who bothered her.

"All right, you win," he said grudgingly. "This time."

She snorted and let him go. "Same as every other time."

"Only because I fight fair with you," he pointed out, rubbing his arms gingerly. "If this were the streets, I'd'a put my boot in your kneecap when you tried that fancy throw, an' you'd be howlin' on the floor."

Her eyes narrowed. "Rematch?"

"Not today," he said hastily. "You've been in battle. You need to recover."

Her wry look said she wasn't fooled. "So how much trouble did you get into while I was gone?"

"Who says I got into any?"

A smile curved on her mouth. "It's you."

For the first time, some of his happiness at seeing her wilted. Memories of the past few days crept in. "A lot," he said quietly. "I done some stupid things. More stupid than usual," he amended. "Men died. There was harpies on the roof, an' they didn't believe me, so they went up there...I couldn't save 'em, Kel. All this magic an' I couldn't even stop 'em dyin'."

She didn't say anything; she only touched his arm, compassion soft on her mouth. He knew she understood; she was a warrior.

"I took the Princess Kalasin into the slums," he continued painfully.

Kel sputtered. "You did what?"

"She blackmailed me," he said. "Don't worry, the only person who caught me was her Carthaki bodyguard, an' Andi seems to think he'll keep quiet. 'Specially as he took her to see some haggard ol' witch."

"He sounds...eminently suitable," Kel said dryly.

"An'..." He swallowed. This was the worst of it. "The Goddess gave me a task. I wanted somethin' to fight. She showed me this, this thing called the Hunt-"

"A unicorn? Three hounds?" Kel interrupted, sounding startled.

"Aye, how did ye..."

She was pale. "That's where I've been. We were chasing the Hunt."

"Me too, in a way," he said grimly. "There were a fourth hound once. But it was captured an' trapped under the castle."

"This castle?" Kel gasped.

He nodded. "I have to stop it."

Her hazel eyes had lost their dreaminess: determination was evident in every inch of her stance. "Have you told Master Salmalin?"

He shifted uneasily. "No...I..."

He didn't want to tell her that he had been sulking; that he had been so angry at the world and all in it that the task had slid clean from his mind. She was so strong, so honourable. And he was just a street-rat with more luck than he deserved.

"Then you have to, now," she insisted. "I've fought those things. They're almost unstoppable. They took out half the Own!" She turned her arms, showing him her bruises and cuts. "I had armour on and they still did this. If it gets loose…"

It became abruptly clear to him how petty and selfish he had been. So wrapped up in his own pity that he couldn't see that the Goddess had given him a chance to change events, to save lives as he had failed to earlier.

"Good job I've got you, lass," he muttered.

She shot him a confused glance. "What do you mean?"

"Who else would keep me on the straight an' narrow?"

"You don't need keeping on it," she said, pulling him out of the door. "You just need a good shove in the right direction now and again."

He smiled. For the first time since she'd left, it felt like he had control of his life again. "Like I say, good job I've got you."

* * *

The night was cool and tranquil. The rumble of the masquerade faded away until all that remained was their footsteps padding on the grass, cat-quiet, because their shoes were back in the ballroom. A breeze riffled her hair, feathery, and they shifted into the shadows whenever the crunch of boots on the gravel paths came close. They passed couples and knots of people talking softly in the relative privacy of the gardens; Pip wondered where they were going until Roald turned down a side path and she saw the high hedges, broken only by the iron-wrought gate covered in gilt heraldry.

The royal gardens were only for the use of King Jonathan and his family.

"Know who I am now?" Roald said quietly. She heard the smile in his voice.

"I guessed back in the hall," she confessed. "I recognised your voice."

He whispered a spell; a spark of blue Gift jumped into the heraldry, and it began to glow with a soft light. The gate swung noiselessly open.

Roald slipped in, and beckoned her.

For a moment, she wavered. She shouldn't be there; she wasn't royal, excepting that all the heirs to the throne suffered abrupt and simultaneous deaths. Then curiosity overtook her, and she followed him in.

"Wow," she breathed.

The gardens were exquisite. Vast white roses bloomed out of season, straggling over benches and statues. Marble faces peered from between the blossoms; the air was heavy with the scent. Clumps of lilies in white and pink straggled around the edge of a pond which was turned to mercury by the moonlight. It was simple and beautiful and entirely peaceful.

With something like a sigh of relief, Roald pulled off the mask. It was still a shock to see his face. She felt oddly hesitant at taking off her own mask, as if she was someone else with it on.

"Surprise," he said dryly.

She sat down on a bench, feeling a moment of bliss as the weight went from her aching legs. "It's beautiful here."

"It's quiet," he said wryly. "And no one bothers me. Which they have been doing a _lot_ lately."

She smiled. "It's your own fault. You cooked up that riddle."

"I had the idea," he protested. "Kally came up with the riddle. And the prize."

"Someone will answer it eventually."

His smile flickered, and he came to sit by her. "I'm counting on it."

"Are you?" she said, startled. "You kept that quiet!"

He turned his face away. "I don't know if she's interested."

"Why wouldn't she be?" demanded Pip. "You're passionate and you're smart and you've got a wild streak that _I_ didn't have a clue existed!"

"You didn't mention I was a prince," he commented, a little startled. His eyes were dark, still as water.

She waved a hand. "Yes, and that. And you perform great deeds of derring-do, etcetera, but that's not really you, is it? That's just what you were born."

"Not many people see it that way."

"Not many people see you," she said, and at his frown, she gestured to the garden, the discarded mask, his bare feet. "You're always so quiet, so..."

"Dutiful?" he offered.

"Yes. I mean, you're different with us, but I'd still never have guessed you'd, you'd," she shrugged, "just kick off your shoes and not care what anybody thought."

"I could," he said. "But I'd be like Kally. It doesn't get her what she wants. She's miserable, but just too stubborn to let anyone see it."

"Are you happy?" she asked, the question stumbling from her lips before she thought he might not want to answer.

The silence was long and charged.

"I could be," he said at last, softly. "If there was someone else I could be free with, just for a while. If there was someone who knew me, past everything I have to pretend to be."

He reached out; his hand trembled as it brushed her cheek, and Pip found she had caught her breath.

"Me?"

His smile was sweet, sad. "You're so free. You make it easy for me to be myself. Everyone else – even if they forget for a few minutes, they always remember what I am and what I'll become. They look at me and see a prince or a squire or a future king. You see _me_."

"Roald..." She didn't know what to say. It was astonishing to see herself through someone else's eyes, to hear the wonder in his voice.

"Sometimes, you're the only one who does," he said. "And I know you couldn't be interested in me, because I'm not, I'm not...what you want."

The imprint of his touch was tingling heat on her face. And in her chest, her heart was thumping. "You are," she said, and felt sudden wild fear.

This was what she had been so afraid of in that dance; that one day, her heart would no longer be her own. And this was the first step, this was it, looking someone else in the eyes and feeling the world pause, shift, change just a little.

His smile was tentative; his touch surer, and the space between them was shrinking, shrinking – she was afraid, she was wild, she was thrilled…

He kissed her then, with a tenderness, a lightness that was utterly maddening, kisses that danced on her mouth like fireflies as her hands curled around his neck of their own will. She breathed in roses and him, and for just a moment, she thought that she could stand to be trapped by him.

When he drew away, the reality of the situation hit her.

"Roald...you're betrothed," she said in the warm space between their lips. "This – this can't happen. It's crazy."

"I know," he answered, and it melted into more kisses until she was half-dizzy, half-disbelieving. "I know it can't last..."

She leaned her forehead against his, flushed. "But?"

"But I want to know what it's like to be free with you," he said quietly. "Even if it's just for a little while."

She knew it was foolish. Nothing could come of it – a throne waited for him, and Shang's hard road for her. But she could live her life afraid of the future; she'd feared it too long, until a dance could seem a threat, until she held her reputation about her like an iron cage.

Pip was tired of being alone.

"A little while," she agreed, and felt his smile curve against her mouth.

* * *

Kalasin swayed against the lord of Vale Runstead. "It's so cold, don't you think?" she purred.

"Very," he said, and pulled her closer. They were far from the ball, far from everyone in an enclosed niche of the public gardens. Under the moonlight, her golden dress seemed almost solid, except for its close fit.

The thrill of it was almost enough to make up for the fact that when she woke up tomorrow, she would still be Princess Kalasin, ruled by her family's needs.

"You could take off your mask," she suggested, sliding a finger under the strings that held it. "I hear you have the most wonderful eyes."

A laugh rumbled in his throat. "I do. You'd be amazed what I can see."

She took it as a compliment on her attire, or rather what lay under it. "I doubt it," Kalasin answered in the breathy voice she'd been informed did disturbing things to men. "But why don't you tell me?"

He leaned down, and swept her hair from her neck. "All...that...raw..."

Teeth grazing her neck, sending pleasant shivers down her. She'd no idea he was so forward. "Yes…?"

Suddenly his voice was a snarl. "..._power_."

Sudden tight pain in her neck – he'd bitten her! Kally thrashed, kicked out – her heel caught him in the shin, and he groaned. She stumbled back – but faster than she could react, he had grabbed her again, arms like a vice in her stomach.

Instinct gripped her then – she scrambled for the first spell she had ever been taught, the spell that all the royal children had engrained in them. Simple movements – finger flicks, one gasped word, and the magic burst into the air like a wild creature. Lights exploded in reds and oranges, sound screeched out into the night to tell the whole palace that she was under attack-

The pressure was gone. Kalasin felt a hard shove and went flying into the wall;her head smacked it, and there was only darkness.

* * *

The noise burst over the air. In the royal garden, Roald was on his feet at once, pulling Pip with him. "That's Kally!" he shouted over the racket, the horror clear in his face. "She's in trouble!"

They sprinted out of the gate, following the wild whirling lights. They weren't alone – mages streamed from the masquerade, calling up spells as they went. Roald was no different: he let go of her hands and blue fire crackled about him.

A scream: a mage was flung over them to land on the ground with a thud. Blood oozed from scratches that raked his face.

"Keep back!" shouted Roald.

"Take your own advice," came a calm voice. Numair Salmalin turned a stern eye on Roald. "Stay here. One member of your family has already been attacked."

Pip became aware that a trio of mages had flanked Roald, each watching for a threat to him. The frustration was plain in his expression. Teeth gritted, he glared at her as she slipped closer to the centre of the furore, careful to keep out of the way of the mages.

They were strung in a loose semi-circle about a vast, black ever-shifting thing. Spells flew at it; some rebounded, others seemed simply to be absorbed into its bulk. Nothing seemed to slow it.

She caught her breath as it paused in its movement: she glimpsed claws, vast teeth, a pointed hint of what might have been wings. And eyes that were red and bright as a comet.

"Don't waste your magic!" came a strange, ragged voice that carried over the raucous noise. A man shouldered past her – as she caught a glimpse of his face, Pip gasped. It was the mage from the Chamber. "It's magic is far greater than yours."

The monster froze: it head turned to gaze balefully at the mage.

He raised his arms. Pip rocked back as the air round him rippled and then magic rose from him in a vast, streaming pillar that vanished into the clouds. Green, eerie, it bathed the mages around them in ghoulish light, all caught in expressions of raw awe.

She had grown up among mages, and the power of this one was incredible. There were perhaps a few who could match him – Numair Salmalin, the King-

Both of whom stepped up beside him.

"Perhaps you need our aid now," Numair remarked loudly.

The mage's mouth twisted. "It would not go awry. We must bind it magically – sheer force is the only way to overpower it."

Pip couldn't say what the three of them did then. She was no mage and the instructions that the man from the Chamber barked out meant nothing to her: but those three Gifts, green, black, blue, wound about one another and combined until the air seemed likely to break from the force of them.

They bore down on the beast: the air went blinding white and she frantically shielded her eyes.

A terrible shriek tore the night: then silence, and calm darkness.

She blinked away sunspots to see a dark, furred shape on the ground. Numair was grey with fatigue, sat on the ground as if he might fall asleep at any instant. The king didn't look in much better shape. Only the mage from the Chamber seemed to have any energy left – triumph, glittering in his eyes, in his grim smile.

He walked over to the creature, and stared down at it with such malevolence it seemed an intrusion to watch.

King Jonathan drew himself up. Even at the edge of obvious exhaustion, he held himself with regal assurance. "So the creature is caught again."

"For now," the mage answered. "It's weak. But it will become stronger. It took me weeks to weave the spells that trapped it before. Eventually, it will devour our magic. And then...?"

"How long?" the king said grimly.

"A day. Two perhaps. Then we will need to do this again. If any of us have the power."

"I see." The king nodded at the mages tending the slim, golden figure on the ground. "The princess?"

"Concussed. A small bite mark."

His shoulders sagged with relief. "Mithros bless," he murmured and others echoed it about him.

Only the mage from the Chamber said nothing. His face could have been set in stone, so proud and rigid was it. Then he saw Pip: his eyes blazed, and she nearly quailed back from the intensity in them.

Quietly, she retreated back to the relative safety of Roald and his gaggle of protectors.

"So," mused the king, eyes cutting about the crowd like blue blades, "We just need to find out which bloody _idiot_ removed part of the spells on the Chamber?"

"That, I'm afraid," said the cool voice of Davir sin Porpyros, "would be me."

The silence was immense.

* * *

Thank you for reading - how was it for you?

* * *


	15. Chapter Fourteen

Afternoon all and very many aplogies that I am late with this; however, I was sorting out some plot kinks and I'd rather it be late than rubbish.

Huge thanks to the utter angels who reviewed last time round. Thank you **SarahE7191, Bex Drake **(Thanks for catching the typo; it's corrected now. I think I will have a lot of fun - and a bit of a challenge - in getting Pip / Roald's relationship right. I already have several scenes of it written. Thanks!), **GinaStar, DramoSkye, The Shang Kudarung, Suzizzle, Cap'n Stella, Lady Mage, kaypgirl, Shang Leopard, Queen of Slayers, dares to dream, Dreamwings, crouchingbunny, Eruanna Eire, Falshing Light, Lady Sapphirea, Wishiwasaneagle **and last but in no way least, **black parade 3 **(Thank you - and updated, as requested!)

I adore hearing what you think; criticism is very much welcome and improves the story massively! Next update by 22/05/08.

I hope you enjoy reading.

A Lady's Shield Part Fourteen

In the dark, so much can be concealed. Shadows are swallowed, what little light remains clutched like a lifebelt.

Justinian knew all the tricks of darkness. He knew that in its deepest folds, worlds met and meshed. Shadows bled into shadows, and a man who knew the secrets of the black places, the deep places, could walk from one world to another on the edge of light if he had the daring and the knowledge.

It pleased him, to find some use for the filthy magic he so despised. If he could not use it himself, he knew how to trap and tame it, to render it harmless. He twisted it into a weapon, a shield, a key.

Under the flames, magic was conquered. Without their tongue a mage could utter no spells; without hands, make no gestures. They were merely vast reservoirs of power; weak, quivering things that had value beyond gold, rubies, diamonds.

After all, what higher price than life itself?

And so he held them out, his offerings, laid them in the shadows where one world eased into another, and waited for something to answer his call.

From worlds unknown, they came, guests at a banquet of the highest and rarest order. In the shadows they were only pieces; monstrous twisting horns, a long clawed hand, a bleeding smile full of teeth and grime. They spoke guttural languages of hunger and need, human words clumsy in their throats, voices like mountains crumbling and fires devouring all. Others would have feared. Justinian opened his arms to them, and let them into the world.

He fed them on maimed and helpless mages, fed them with power until they were glutted, lazy, his.

And in return, they offered the one thing he craved above all...

Everything.

* * *

The room was small and warding spells crossed it like iron bars. Yet despite its compact size, swathes of space surrounded the man leaning against a wall. At the other end, a crowd of people faced him.

At the centre of that crowd sat King Jonathan on a heavy chair that had been brought in. The Queen stood behind him, her hands on his shoulders. Both faces were grim, regal, and striking.

If the menace in the air bothered Davir sin Porphyros, he didn't show it.

"I hope you have a very good explanation as to why you let loose that creature," the king said in a soft voice that Numair had long ago learned to recognise as Jonathan at his most dangerous. People tended to forget that this was a man who had fought tooth and nail for his throne and his country, that he was as ruthless as he was determined.

"I have an explanation, sire," the Carthaki answered. "Whether it will suffice is another matter."

"Spare me your flippancy," Jonathan said sharply. "In case you've forgotten, you are responsible for my daughter's injuries – injuries _you_ are supposed to protect her from!"

"She was in disguise," Davir snapped. "In case _you've_ forgotten, there were half a dozen girls flitting around in that disgusting attire. If Tortall's king cannot control his own child, I fail to see why I am expected to succeed – or why I shouldn't tell my Emperor that he's getting damaged goods!"

The collective intake of breath made the silence after more uncomfortable. Numair was very glad that Jonathan had forbidden all but his most trusted advisors to enter the room. Even so…

"Watch your words, Kyrios Davir," Jonathan said in a voice sheathed by ice. "You are a guest in my country, nothing more."

Perhaps the Carthaki realised he had gone too far. He straightened, and something close to respect flickered over his proud face. He swept a low, humble bow, and there was no mockery at all in his face as he said, "And I have abused your hospitality. I can only offer you my deepest apologies, and hope that my explanation will be sufficient to keep you from throwing me into a dungeon."

Jonathan gave a small nod, but his stance was rigid as a judge. "Go on."

"In Carthak, we set much store in prophecy. It has always been so. Ozorne claimed the throne on the back of one such foretelling; and the mere rumour of another telling of his downfall was enough to make life in the court very…interesting. The Sight has always been a strong skill among our people, and we have used it to our advantage."

Davir's mouth twisted into a humourless smile.

"And," he continued softly, "those of us who cannot afford soothsayers have had it used against us too. There was a time when you could be convicted for a crime you were going to commit. Treason-to-be was one of Ozorne's whims, and strangely enough, the accused were almost always those who dared criticise him."

"I have heard these tales," Jonathan said guardedly. "We could never find any truth in them."

He gave a languid shrug. "Why would you? Speaking up against it was often construed as treason-to-be as well. But I digress. My point is that prophecy is a way of life for us in Carthak. Emperor Kaddar is no different, except that he would rather hear truth than pleasant lies. Some months ago, our seers began to get – disturbing flashes of the future. War. Brutality. Dark magic. Death."

"It's my understanding that prophecy is not an exact art," the queen murmured. She arched a thin black eyebrow. "There are many futures, as many as there are stars."

"Yes and no," Davir answered. "There are many futures, but some are more likely than others. And if one becomes more likely – if it becomes close to certain – then it dominates all visions. So it was with this one. War is on its way. That much is certain. The outcome is not."

"What does this have to do with you freeing a monster?" the king said. "Hardly an olive branch."

Davir grimaced. "I had no idea that would happen. I was instructed to take a nail from the Chamber."

"Why?"

"You need to win this war," Davir said bluntly. "If Tortall loses, this land will be a nightmare place, burned, peopled with slaves and monsters. And it will spread to Carthak, to Tusaine and Maren and Scanra until the whole world is black and dead and we are nothing but animals howling for mercy."

Numair could not hide how shaken he felt. There was absolute conviction in the Carthaki's words.

"Our seers have been working night and day to discover some escape. Something is trying to stop them. Four have died. Another went mad and tried to claw off her own face. But before the madness took her, she sent me here, and told me that I needed a nail from the Chamber. It would hold the key to winning the war if I could find a seer strong enough to use it. I…I did as she said."

"I see," Jonathan said. No forgiveness softened his words.

Davir's confidence waned; his face was vulnerable, fearful suddenly, and Numair felt a shaft of pity for this young man who had travelled so far clutching so little hope. "If I had known what would happen, I would have been more careful. I came as an ally."

"And you are extremely lucky that I believe you," replied Jonathan. His knuckles were white on the arms of the chair. "So you took a nail. And did you find your answer?"

"I found…an answer," Davir said hesitantly.

Jonathan motioned. "Go on."

He licked his lips. His voice was soft, rhythmic, as if he had memorised every cadence of the seer's words. "She must rise from the ashes, rise and burn again, or all is lost. Wake the phoenix-"

A cry cut him off; Numair was knocked aside as Iceblood shouldered past him, his face aghast, desperate.

"Wake her?" he snarled, and those who didn't know his identity stared at this wild-eyed, gaunt man in astonishment. "Wake her? Do you think she's sleeping in some fairytale tower? She is dead, you stupid boy, she is dead and gone and untouchable as the gods-damned stars!"

"If you cannot be calm, be courteous," Jonathan snapped, half-rising from his chair, and the mage spun to stare at him, king who was and king who might have been, the two locked in a silent struggle for authority.

"It is lies," Iceblood said in a voice that shook with anger. But Numair saw the redness of his eyes, the shine there. He pitied the mage then, remembering too clearly those times when he had thought Daine lost. That terror was still too raw. "Nothing but lies."

"Then you should have no trouble hearing them," Jonathan said curtly.

Iceblood's face froze; it was a death mask, caught on the cusp of a grief so deep Numair could barely begin to comprehend it, on the great divide between control and savagery. Slowly, he turned back to stare at Davir.

"Carry on, Kyrios," Jonathan said.

"She...she must rise from the ashes, rise and burn again, or all is lost. Wake the phoenix, call her back down the fiery path and make the old bargain, or we are all lost."

Davir's words seemed to hang on the air like mist, bringing with them chill and portent.

"She is dead," Iceblood said fiercely.

Numair didn't want to have all that rage focused on him, but he had no choice. "Are you sure?"

Those orange eyes might have belonged to an animal if not for the intelligence in them. "I held her body in my arms for days. And when I could bring myself to believe she was gone, I burned her under the moon and hoped she would return." He gave a rough laugh. "I too hoped she would rise from the ashes and burn again. She did not."

"I assume we are talking about the Shang Phoenix," Jonathan said coolly.

Iceblood's glare was response enough.

"Are we sure it is her we must wake?"

Numair, who had been privy to Raoul's arrival and the news he brought, grimaced. "It is unlikely to be anyone else. Skirmishers come and speak of Justinian. The hound that killed the Phoenix is free. Iceblood walks among us." He ignored the gasps that elicited. "Who else could it be?"

Jonathan gave a small nod. "Then it seems she can wake, and we must discover how."

Iceblood was pale, disbelieving. "It can't be..." he whispered. "I held her..."

And then you burned the world for love of her, for lack of her, Numair thought. You destroyed half a world for nothing if she is truly able to return.

What fools we are for love. What ignorant and reckless fools.

And now we must be foolish once more, and draw her back from the dead to save us if we can. If she can. Or all is lost, and I see in his face just what that would mean, I see destruction before me, and a heart as broken as the world he abandoned.

* * *

Kalasin didn't look at the woman healing her. The golden dress was in shreds around her legs, her modesty saved by the scratchy cloak someone had thrown over her. Her face ached horribly, but then so did her entire body. Every beat of her heart was like fingers pushing at her wounds.

The only saving grace was that her parents and Roald were in some kind of meeting with and their advisors her ghastly bodyguard. She had the feeling there would be a whole spate of lectures to come.

And she was trying very, very hard not to think about what had happened. Not to feel again the scrape of its teeth. Every time she inhaled, she thought she caught a waft of its stench, meaty, rotting, animal.

"You'll be fine, princess," the woman said shortly. She dusted off her hands. "The ache will fade by morning."

"Thank you," Kalasin muttered.

She felt stupid and exposed. The guards had kept away most of the curious, but she knew at least a couple of people had glimpsed her. And she had seen the disapproval in the eyes of some of the guards, men who had watched her grown up, sworn their lives to her family, and so to her.

It was with ducked head and silent escort that she limped back to her rooms, carefully avoiding the bustling corridors of the ball.

"Gods above!"

She nearly groaned at the too-familiar sound of Ryan Talver. Only her swollen cheek stopped her.

"What happened to you?" demanded the street rat, gawping.

She stared at him, too glum even to put on a front of arrogance. "A monster happened," she mumbled.

Keladry of Mindelan was with him. That was almost more galling than anything else; a too-sharp reminder of what Kalasin had wanted to be – that girl there, looking so natural in her livery, with hands toughened by weapons, with muscles and an air of quiet competency.

And here she was, a failure.

"A monster, in the palace?" Keladry said, hazel eyes alarmed. "There was some kind of commotion-"

She swallowed a lump in her throat. Her pride, no doubt. "That was it. That was me."

"Are ye all right?" Ryan said with unexpected gentleness. "Your face…"

"Just bruises. The healer did a good job."

"What could get into the palace?"

"I don't know. I didn't really see it." She felt tired beyond belief. She wanted to lock herself in her room and pretend it hadn't happened. "It looked so human. And then it...it bit me."

"An' did it tear off all your clothes at the same time?" Ryan asked.

She felt a flush rise. "No."

He actually looked embarrassed. "Oh. Sorry. We should...uh, we should leave ye to recover."

Leave me to the gossip, she thought wearily. Leave me to whatever someone else decides is appropriate. Same as always.

* * *

Andrea didn't know where she was going. She walked aimlessly through the palace, swerving away from the bright lights and babble of the ball, from the couple-infested niches of the gardens. Even the library wasn't right; all that knowledge, all those fine books and the intricate wood panelling reminded her how out of place she felt.

She was used to loneliness. After the flux killed her parents, there had been no one to rely on but herself. And she was used to fear too, because loneliness and fear were twins of a sort, like two sides of a blade.

And she was used to being small, insignificant, a piece of the background.

The problem was that she was neither anymore. Everyone seemed to know who she was. Nobles stopped to talk to her. Great mages asked her to heal and watched her with academic curiosity; and no matter how kind and patient Master Salmalin was, he was still Numair Salmalin, one of the most powerful men in the kingdom.

It was as if she had been invisible before, as if only her gift elevated her into their world.

And while all that was flattering, she was also frightened. They said her Gift was extraordinarily strong; that she had the potential to be a healer of the highest order, but she had seen the alarm in their eyes when they spoke of her connection to Ryan. Combined, their magic was immense, unpredictable – and, she had once heard Numair murmur softly to Harailt Ali, uncontrollable.

_Uncontrollable_.

She remembered how it felt to have all that power streaming through her, wild and ferocious, how it felt as if she could reach out and remould the world as she wanted.

And Andrea was very afraid that one day, she just might.

Ryan never seemed to be bothered. He wielded magic casually, clumsily, laughing off accidents and successes alike. If he ever feared his Gift, it didn't show. Insouciant, glib, he offered gods and men equal cheek and equal respect.

But Andrea wondered what a god could want with her, why she had been given magic in such vast and intoxicating quantities. She wondered if she was just an unknowing pawn in a greater game.

And she feared that she was. One day the elation she felt each time she used her Gift would tip over into insanity until she was little more than a rabid beast; and she would find that her purpose was to be destroyed, to be a lesson in the limits of man's power.

The gods are cruel. She had learned it early.

That was why she walked aimlessly, trying to find a path away from her destiny, her magic and ultimately herself.

So it was she came to the training grounds and an extraordinary sight.

The woman moved slowly and gracefully, her hands sweeping through the air. In the moonlight, her skin was bronze and gleaming, her hair a silver blade that curved around her as she spun, dipped, stretched. Her eyes were closed; her lips moving as if in prayer or recitation.

She looked soft, ethereal and not quite real.

Andrea only stood watching her, entranced; then the woman's eyes opened, and brief outrage crossed her face before she drew herself up, cold.

"Didn't you see enough earlier?" she said coolly.

Andrea stared back blankly. "What?"

The woman took her in with a single scornful glance. "Just like all the thrill-seekers. You want to see a Shang."

"You're Shang?"

The woman's eyes seemed two black pools, unreadable. "Or perhaps you don't."

"I came for a walk," Andrea offered, aware that it sounded a little, well, stupid. "I wanted some air. I didn't mean to stare. You just looked so…"

"So?" the woman said, the word like a knife.

"Beautiful," Andrea said timidly.

She could have sworn surprise flashed over the woman's face, but then it was still as stone again. "It's nothing to do with beauty. What use is that?"

Andrea didn't dare to comment on the woman's severe face, which had a feral, bladed kind of beauty to it.

"The war dances of Carthak train the mind and the body. You must learn to control your thoughts so that every move is perfect," the woman said. "You must be empty, so that nothing can surprise or distract you."

It sounded...peaceful. Like everything that her life here was not. She was a little afraid of the woman, but she swallowed it back and said, "Could you teach me?"

Dark mouth pursed, she gave Andrea a sceptical look. Silence lingered until it was uncomfortable, another weapon in the woman's arsenal.

Andrea stayed still, hands clasped, trying not to squirm under the intense scrutiny.

The woman gave a sudden, fierce smile. "I suppose I could teach if you abandon these silly ideas of beauty. I need something to do while I heal."

Only when she held up her arm did Andrea see the white bandages on it.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Excitement," the woman said curtly. She arched her brows. "So, little protégé, do you want to tell me your name? Or shall we just skip straight to the fun?"

"Andrea Kirisra."

"Yvenia. The Shang Stormwing." Her eyes glittered. "Still sure you want to learn?"

"Why wouldn't I?" she said, confused.

Yvenia only laughed, a heartless sound that clattered on the air. "Because they named me well." She strode over; her fingers pinched Andrea's chin in a painful grip. "I was made to show man the horrors of death," she said softly. "That is what I will teach you. That is all you will find in the stillness. You won't thank me. But you might live a little longer because of me."

Shaken, Andrea only stared back. She didn't understand; she didn't want to. But she was very afraid that the Stormwing would make her.

There in the gloom, she began to learn the Carthaki war dances. The Stormwing was an exacting teacher; she showed a move once and expected a perfect repetition. Faults were rewarded with sharp slaps and sharper words. Andrea was positioned, stretched, insulted as she sought to find stillness in the languid, precise moves of the dance, as she swayed and arched.

She was gold and silver under the moon, and beside her the Stormwing seemed a shadow, the two opposite, youth and experience, hope and despair, beauty and brutality.

She knew nothing of monsters or war. Nor could she know what a prize she would be, how brightly she would shine in a dark world. She did not see how the moon-cut shadows drifted towards her, reaching, stretching like fingers as the king of shadows reached out from his throne, hungry as ever...

But she was not the only prize.

* * *

Kalasin shut the door on her servants and locked it firmly with key and spells. She ignored their calls, ignored the trouble she would inevitably be in when they fetched a mage to unlock it tomorrow. Doubtless they were gossiping about her already.

The shreds of the dress went into the fire; she tore a comb through her hair, grimacing at the knots. Her cheek throbbed, and she felt exhausted.

She pulled on the kind of worn, comfortable clothes that would have startled those who knew glamorous Princess Kalasin, fluttering, vapid, selfish. She wanted to lie down and sleep for a hundred years, like the girl in the fairytale who had surely left all her problems behind in a century of slumber.

Weary, she went to snuff out the candles. She reached for the first-

It went out. She was left staring at a wisp of smoke, fingers still waiting to pinch it out.

She glanced behind her. The window was shut. Maybe the draught had come from the fireplace.

Bemused, she went to the next one.

It went out again. Kalasin stared – then heard a great gasp, like a giant's breath, and whirled around to see the fire reduced to ash and smoke.

Only five candles remained, fragile warmth against the sudden chill that swept her.

One by one, they went out until the last shone like a tiny sword. All else was stark shadow, and she found herself hurrying into the ring of orange light as if it could protect her. Frightened now, she drew a quick warding over the candle, so that nothing could extinguish it.

"Who's there?" she whispered.

His voice was smooth and low. "A friend."

She peered into the shadows. "I don't know you."

"Ah, but I know you. Lonely little Kalasin, wanting to be more than a pretty face and not allowed." Sympathy was warm, gentle on his words. "It's a beautiful cage they keep you in, made of gold and promises, but you and I know it's a cage all the same."

"Who are you?"

"A man who found a better world," he said, and suddenly she saw a shape form from the gloom. He moved forward until he was just beyond the light, cast in gold, all soft edges. "A man who would set you free."

His hair was blond, messy, curling at the nape of his neck. His eyes threw back the candlelight so she could not see their colour, and his mouth was curved in a sleepy smile. He seemed an angel, gleaming in the shadows, so pale he might never have seen sunlight. And he was holding something behind his back. Kalasin tensed. A knife. A sword. He could be an assassin.

"My name is Justinian," he said. It sounded vaguely familiar. A minor lord, perhaps, but not one she had ever seen at court. "And I came to bring you an answer."

"An answer?" she said, baffled.

"To your riddle," he said softly.

For a moment, she couldn't think what he meant. Then it dawned on her. The riddle she and Roald had set – that was what this was about. He was another of her admirers, if one with more gumption than most. Getting into her rooms was a bold move. An idiotic move – she would hear him out, then she would throw him out and no matter how good-looking he was, he would learn not to disturb her.

"Go on then," she said wearily.

"_Wingless I fly and mindless I seek  
__I sometimes am true but never can lie  
__I once had a heart though it never beat  
__And where I am legion, men often die."_

He paused. And then he drew out his hand, and in it was an arrow.

"As true as I am," he said solemnly.

He was right. She stared at him, astonished. The riddle was five hundred years old; it had been set by some old king who'd taunted prisoners with it but none of them had been able to answer it. Mostly, of course, because he'd had them shot with the answer for every wrong guess.

"You're well-read," she conceded.

"And right," he said.

She nodded.

"Then you owe me a kiss, Princess Kalasin," he said, his voice teasing.

Her fear subsided. An admirer, she could handle. And a kiss – well, she'd given away a dozen for nothing, what was one more?

"Come and get it," she said coyly.

His smile flashed, brilliant. "Come and give it."

She wanted him to go away so she could sleep. Kalasin stepped towards him – and he moved back, further into the shadows. She crossed the threshold of the candlelight, not noticing that she was walking into darkness.

There he caught her, held her, and his hands were so hot she nearly gasped at his touch. When he kissed her, it was all teeth and heat and ferocity. She reeled back, breathless, startled.

"Do you know how I knew the answer?" he whispered, pressed to her.

"You read the right book."

"Wrong," he said, and ran a finger over her cheek.

Suddenly a breeze blasted across her back, she smelt hot metal and something spicy exotic. They were moving – she could hear the wind rushing by, but that was impossible surely!

"That was my riddle once, and I offered life itself in exchange for the right word. So I think that I want more than a kiss from you."

Fear was pumping through her blood again – she turned in his arms, and saw that her room was gone, that the candle was a faint flicker that seemed to be moving further and further away...

"Who are you?" she gasped.

His laughter was low, rolling and full of delight. "I am the king of shadows, and I have waited five hundred years to take back my kingdom."

His hands were hard on her arms, burning so she wrenched against his grip to no avail. He was immovable as iron.

"What do you want from me?"

"Your hand in marriage," he said. "You, my dear, are my claim to the throne."

"I won't marry you!"

In the distance, the last smudge of golden light blinked out. Heat hit her, and she heard sounds – hooting, screeching, terrible inhuman noises that seemed all around her. She gazed into the dark, eyes wide and fearful, realising that Justinian was all her protection in this world.

Lights flared – dim red torches that threw flickering streaks of light. She felt shock at what it revealed – malformed creatures, hideous things that changed shape from second to second. Their eyes fixed on her; one licked its lips with a forked tongue and made a throaty noise that turned her stomach.

They were stood within a circle of stones that stretched up as far as the eye could see. Lingering between them, the creatures waited. Beyond them, the landscape was charred and blistered, the ground parting only to spout flames and vapour. The sky boiled with vast purpled clouds; there was no sun, only the light thrown by the torches and the flames.

"Won't you?" Justinian said mildly. "Do you really think you have a choice?"

He caressed her neck, playing with her hair.

"You don't," he said gently. "You're mine, or you're theirs. So tell me, princess, you gave away your freedom with a kiss. Will you give away your life with a word? Will you marry me? Yes...or no?"

She stared at the things prowling around her, breathing alien air, all alone in a world of shadows except for him. The brave thing would be to die, to be noble and right. But the fear overruled everything, the sight of those teeth of what they might do to her before she died.

"Yes," she said, and hated herself.

"Good girl," he said, and dropped a burning kiss on the back of her neck. "My little queen."

In the shadows, Kalasin wept.

* * *

It was stretching into the early hours of the morning when they left the chamber and Numair was fighting to hold back the yawns creaking in his jaw. The discussion had gone in circles to little avail. Scholars were already hurrying to the archives to try and find any mention of Davir's fiery path or Justinian. Outriders had gone to warn of the impending invasion, taking with them Raoul's instructions for fighting the monsters of Justinian's army.

As for him, he would snatch a few hour sleep then meet with other mages to discuss how they might keep the hound from escaping. He felt battle-weary already even though it had barely begun.

Justinian. It seemed impossible he might have survived, but others had in similar circumstances. Ozorne, for one. Men of ambition sought immortality as flies clustered around a midden.

He nearly tripped over something and looked down, startled to see a leg.

"Sir!" Keladry of Mindelan snapped to attention from where she had been leaning against the wall. "We've been waiting for you."

The leg had belonged to Ryan, who raised his head of his knees to reveal bleary eyes. "Are they done?" he mumbled.

"For now," Numair said and gave his protégé a hand up, grimacing at the boy's lightness. Even weeks of palace food hadn't put enough weight on him, though that wasn't for lack of trying. "Is it urgent?"

"Well..." Ryan said.

"Yes," Keladry said firmly. "When the gods talk, you should listen, Ryan."

"The gods?"

Ryan was definitely looking shifty. "The Goddess, aye. She...sort'a set me a task."

Just what they needed. Numair fervently hoped it wasn't likely to send his charge careening off on some sort of wild adventure. Now was not the time. "And that task is..."

"There's this hound," Ryan said mournfully. "It's asleep under the palace-"

Numair held up a finger. "It _was_ asleep. No longer."

Ryan's mouth opened, closed, opened again with a panicky, "But it can't escape! I have to stop it..."

"It is stopped." At his astonished expression, Numair did have to smile. "You aren't the only mage in the palace, Ryan. And in many ways, you are among the least accomplished. We managed to subdue it for now."

"For now?"

"It will rise again," Numair said quietly, feeling his smile vanish. "I am told it devours magic as we might meat. Few spells can hold it for long. We may yet need you."

After all, if sheer force was the way to bind the creature, he could think of few mages stronger. Unfortunately, he could also think of few mages less experienced or more volatile. While the Goddess clearly thought Ryan ready, Numair was not so sure.

"Ye think I should stay near it?" Ryan asked.

"I think that would be wise. There are some spells you should learn too...in fact, we might as well make a start as soon as possible."

"Andi too?"

He considered it. Ryan's magic was geared to battle, but Andrea was a healer. Apart, she could be no use, and he would not risk combining their powers unless it came to the worst. "No. Unless you make a mess of it – which I won't allow you to – we won't need a healer. Dawn is not far off. Get some sleep. Tomorrow will be difficult."

The street-rat flashed him a cheeky grin. "So what else is new?"

He certainly had not lost his energy. Numair felt a little cheered as he watched Ryan go, the spring still in his step. All was not lost.

They had Iceblood, who knew Justinian through and through, who had warred with him for years. They had a prophecy bringing hope. And now, it seemed, even the gods were taking an interest.

A yawn escaped him. And completing the set, he had a warm bed and a certain lovely woman waiting for him. If the distant future was bleak, the next few hours at least held promise of some peace.

* * *

Pip went to bed with her thoughts buzzing round her head. The palace guard had shooed away everyone from the gardens and after news went around that Princess Kalasin had been attacked by some kind of monster, the ball dissolved into speculation and gossip. Fed up by it, she had given up.

She woke with the feeling that something had changed. And then she remembered and her stomach gave a little flip. Roald. The rose garden. Kisses.

She dressed with an air of unreality, as if she might step outside her room and find nothing had happened. Princes didn't yearn for girls like her; that was a spun-sugar fairytale for someone else.

She went down to breakfast early, as she always did, so she could eat with her friends. All of them looked distinctly worse for wear. Neal was clearly nursing an extravagant hangover from his haggard face, and Merric's greenish pallor was a lovely complement to his freckles. Despite it, all of them were chattering away.

"Pip!" Neal waved her over with a frail gesture. "I assume you've heard."

"Beauty and the beast?" she said dryly.

"The very same," he acknowledged. "Everyone's wondering how it got into the palace. And no one's seen the princess today."

"That's because she's embarrassed," a new voice said tartly, and Roald sat down opposite her. He looked as tired as the rest of them. "Kally behaved like an idiot."

"It probably wasn't the cleverest thing she's ever done," conceded Seaver, looking a little dreamy at the memory, "but it was...beautiful."

"Exquisite," Faleron agreed around a mouthful of fruit. "And no one knew."

"No one except the big clawed monster," Roald pointed out. His eyes grazed hers then, and that glance was so impersonal that Pip was suddenly convinced it _had _all been a mad dream. "Which was a large part of the problem. Father is furious. He was all for packing her off to Carthak tomorrow, except he's afraid of what she might do over there."

"I think if she repeated _that_ stunt, my Emperor might enjoy it."

They all looked up to see Davir holding a tray, expression hesitant. He gave Pip a wary smile. "Lady ha Minch. Thank you for your company last night. I was wondering if you might be glad of mine this morning."

Since when was he so courteous? He must have been royally rollicked last night to be this subdued.

"Always," she said and elbowed Neal until he squeezed up to leave space. All the boys were looking cautious, as if they thought Davir might start arm-wrestling at the table. "As long as your scary lady friend doesn't join us."

He raised an eyebrow, looking more himself. "I assume you mean Eve."

"Wasn't that the Shang Stormwing?" Neal said. "I've heard some gruesome stories about her."

"Probably all true." Davir grimaced. "Mercy is not one of her virtues."

"I thought the Shang...crusaded for justice," Merric said. "That's what the Horse always says. Isn't mercy part of that?"

"Mercy for who? The victim? Or the villain? Eve would tell you that criminals deserve only as much mercy as they gave others. And she would tell you that above their screams, and not feel a qualm."

Pip couldn't help but feel cold at such callousness. That wasn't what she had dreamed of, that wasn't what she wanted to be.

"And I owe you an apology," Davir added, staring straight at Roald, who looked startled.

"Do you?"

"I came to protect your sister. I failed."

Roald cracked a rueful smile. "No one can protect Kally from herself. I don't blame you. And I doubt my father will...eventually. If you stop antagonising him."

A deep flush stained Davir's cheeks. "Tact isn't one of _my_ virtues."

The tension broken, the rest of the meal passed in companionable chat. Davir was invariably interrogated by the boys, who all wanted to learn Carthaki knife-dancing, and who had copious amounts of curiosity about his country. She joined their conversation as if all was normal, as if nothing had passed between her and the prince.

She couldn't hep but wonder if he had changed his mind – if it had been the brief allure of a masquerade. On the way out, she went to drop her plates by the kitchen, and swore as someone nudged her and they went crashing to the floor.

Irritated, she bent to pick them up – and a hand caught her wrist.

She glanced up into familiar blue eyes, no longer impersonal. No, not impersonal at all, but heated and intimate.

"Meet me later," Roald said in a low voice. "I have something to show you."

"That's what they all say," she murmured back, and saw his answering grin as he helped her clear up the mess, no one any the wiser. "Where?"

"The library. The taxation room. No one ever goes there."

"I'll look for you in the big pile of dust," she said dryly, and he was gone. Her heart was beating strangely quick; she couldn't be one of those stupid girls who mooned over men. She didn't have time to be. This was just for fun, just for a little while.

It didn't mean a thing.

* * *

Her lesson didn't start well. It didn't continue well. And when she flew back into the wall with a resounding thump and her mask clattered to the floor, Pip concluded that it hadn't ended well either.

"What is wrong with you today?" demanded the Wildcat crisply. "Gods, girl, your punches are softer than Hakuin's heart!"

"I agree," the Horse said grimly. "About your punches, at any rate."

The Wildcat gave a little snort. She slapped a glove against her thigh, watching Pip with sudden shrewdness. "Something is distracting you. Whatever it is, you need to deal with it. You can't afford to be slow."

"Sorry," she said glumly. "I just can't clear my head."

"Oh? What's bothering you."

It's more about who's going to be bothering me in a very interesting way, she thought, but floundered for a lie that would pass muster. "It's...the ball last night. The monster. I couldn't fight something like that."

The pair exchanged glances. "There are some things you can't fight," Hakuin explained. "And part of being Shang is recognising that. We're the best, but we aren't invincible. Leave magic things to mages."

"And clear your head," the Wildcat added, but there was sympathy in her voice. "Let's try again."

The flurry of blows, kicks, twists and throws didn't go any better. As she landed onto her back with an almighty thud, Pip felt absolutely deflated.

"Well," the Wildcat said, appearing over her, hands on hips, "you obviously didn't manage to clear your head. I think we're done for today."

Her obvious disappointment was the worst thing. Pip felt that she'd let her down.

"Eda…" There was a thoughtful note in the Horse's voice. Pip knew from previous experience it meant trouble. "Perhaps Pip needs a little help. From someone who doesn't allow anything to distract her."

Dislike made Eda Bell's expression briefly savage. "Not the Stormwing. You know I can't stand that girl. She makes a mockery of everything we stand for."

"She's one of the best," Hakuin said quietly. "Yes, and the worst, I know. But nothing ever breaks her focus."

The Wildcat sighed. "Very well. But you can ask for her help."

Hakuin's mouth twitched. "You just hate the fact she calls you 'old lady'."

"It's more the fact she means it," the Wildcat said shortly. "Pip, learn focus from the Stormwing if she agrees to teach you. Don't learn anything else."

Despite herself, Pip couldn't help but be fascinated by the idea of training with that fierce, cold woman she had seen last night. "Not even knife-dancing?"

"Especially not knife-dancing. If you need to play with blades, get that Carthaki friend of yours to show you. If you make a mistake, he won't stab you and call it a sharp lesson."

"She did that?"

Both Shang were silent. Then Hakuin said, "That and worse. She doesn't know how to lose. And you may think that makes her strong or good, but it makes her cruel too."

"Now go on with you," the Wildcat added briskly. "And be better tomorrow. An old lady like me shouldn't be able to bounce you off the walls, but I will if you don't show me some mettle!"

She felt like saluting. Instead, she limped away.

Out in the halls, there was a hubbub. Guards were everywhere – rooms were being searched she realised, frowning mages were walking the corridors muttering spells.

She got back to her own room to find more armoured men in it, searching it as if there might be treasure hidden there. She joined the other girls in the hall, confused.

"What's going on?"

One of them leaned over, eyes wide and excited. "Haven't you heard? She's gone!"

"Who's gone?"

"It's the Princess," another said. "She's missing. And there was a message left in her room – written all over the looking glass in ash. Isn't that creepy?"

"What did it say?" she asked, alarmed. Roald...did he know? What must he be thinking? Was it something to do with the monster last night?

The girl dropped her voice, face solemn. "_She belongs to the shadows_. And there's a name – Marcia heard it from a guard who heard it from a mage who heard the King himself utter it!" She took a deep breath. "Justinian."

And suddenly Pip knew where she had heard that name – she remembered the Wildcat saying _there's no Justinian to steal the throne._

Wrong, she thought, her heart so full of fear it seemed a lump of ice.

She belongs to the shadows. And maybe we all will too.

* * *

Thank you for reading! I would _love_ hearing what you thought.


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